The forty-eight-hour injunction was ticking down like a bomb.
Felicity sat in the waiting area outside Alistair Stone's office for the second time in two days. The novelty of the plush carpet and the panoramic view had worn off, replaced by a nausea that churned in the pit of her stomach. It was Friday afternoon. Outside, the London sky was a bruise of purple and grey, threatening another downpour.
Inside, the silence was absolute.
She wasn't sure why she had been summoned. Usually, when a developer won a legal battle, they just sent a demolition notice and a bill for the legal fees. Being called back to the scene of the crime felt like a power play. Alistair wanted to deliver the killing blow in person.
"Ms. Monroe?"
The receptionist didn't smile. She just gestured toward the double doors.
Felicity stood up, smoothing down her blazer. She had worn her "lucky" earrings—tiny silver trowels she'd bought at a museum gift shop—but she didn't feel lucky. She felt like a gladiator stepping into the arena with nothing but a plastic spoon.
She pushed the doors open.
The conference room was exactly as she remembered it: vast, cold, and smelling faintly of aggressive cleaning products. Alistair was there, standing at the head of the table. But this time, he wasn't alone. Marcus, the nervous lawyer, was there too, along with two other men in suits who looked like they charged by the syllable.
And in the center of the mahogany table sat a box.
It wasn't a sleek, modern file box. It was old—battered leather, peeling at the corners, smelling of dust and decay. It looked like something pulled from a shipwreck.
"Sit down, Felicity," Alistair said. He didn't offer coffee this time. His voice was tight, clipped. He looked like a man who had not slept.
"I prefer to stand," Felicity said, gripping the back of the chair. "If you're going to tell me you've bribed a judge to lift the injunction, just say it. I have a press release to write."
Alistair looked at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "I haven't bribed anyone. Contrary to your opinion of me, I operate strictly within the law. Which is precisely why we are here."
He nodded at Marcus. The lawyer looked terrified. He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand.
"Ms. Monroe," Marcus began, his voice squeaking slightly. "As per Mr. Stone's instructions, we conducted a forensic audit of the Holloway Theatre's property deeds, dating back to the original purchase of the land in 1922 by Silas Holloway."
"And?" Felicity asked.
"And," Marcus continued, reaching into the battered leather box, "we found this."
He pulled out a document. It was yellowed parchment, fragile and dense with calligraphy. A red wax seal, cracked with age, sat at the bottom.
"The original land covenant," Marcus said. "It was misfiled under the borough's sanitation records in 1950, which is why it didn't show up in the initial digital survey. But it is valid. And it is binding."
Felicity looked from the parchment to Alistair. Alistair was staring out the window, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked like he wanted to throw the table through the glass.
"What does it say?" Felicity whispered.
"It contains a specific provision," Marcus said, reading from the text. "Title 4, Paragraph B. Colloquially known in property law as a 'Legacy Clause'. Or, in this specific case..."
He hesitated.
"Read it, Marcus," Alistair snapped.
Marcus flinched and read aloud. "Whosoever shall seek to alter, dismantle, or destroy the structure known as The Holloway Theatre must first prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the spirit of the building cannot be salvaged. To this end, a period of six months must be granted. During this time, the Owner must fund a full-scale restoration attempt, overseen by a Custodian of Heritage. Only if this restoration fails to generate a profit or structural viability after six months, may the building be razed."
The room went silent.
Felicity felt her knees give way. She sat down heavily in the chair.
"A restoration clause," she breathed. "Silas Holloway protected his theatre from the grave."
"It's ridiculous," one of the other lawyers muttered. "It's archaic. We can challenge it in court. 'Spirit of the building'? It's legally ambiguous."
"It would take three years to fight this in high court," Alistair said, turning around. His voice was ice cold. "Three years where my capital is tied up, where the press crucifies us, and where that building sits rotting. I don't have three years."
He walked toward Felicity. He moved like a storm cloud—dark, heavy, and inevitable. He stopped at the other side of the table, leaning his hands on the wood, looming over her.
"So," Alistair said softly. "It seems we are at an impasse. I cannot tear it down. You cannot save it without money."
"The clause says the Owner must fund the restoration," Felicity pointed out, her heart racing. A smile, small and tentative, tugged at the corner of her lips. "That's you, Alistair."
"I am aware of what it says," he hissed.
"So you have to let me fix it."
"I have to let someone fix it," Alistair corrected. "The clause specifies a 'Custodian of Heritage'. It doesn't specify you."
"I'm the one who found the murals," Felicity shot back, finding her footing. "I'm the one who knows the building. I'm the only architect in London who has studied Silas Holloway's original techniques. You could hire someone else, sure. You could hire a corporate firm who will do the bare minimum and fail. But if you do that, the Heritage Trust will sue you for breach of the 'good faith' requirement in that clause. We will tie you up in litigation until your grandchildren are born."
It was a bluff. Mostly. But Felicity delivered it with the confidence of a poker player holding a royal flush.
Alistair stared at her. The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. He was calculating. She could see the numbers scrolling behind his grey eyes. He was weighing the cost of a lawsuit against the cost of a renovation. He was weighing his ego against his profit margins.
Finally, Alistair stood up straight. He buttoned his jacket. The mask of indifference slid back into place.
"Fine," he said.
Felicity blinked. "Fine?"
"We will follow the clause," Alistair said. "Six months. I will fund the restoration. I will provide the materials, the crew, and the budget."
"And the architect?" Felicity asked.
"You," Alistair said. The word sounded like a curse. "You want to save it so badly? Prove it. You have six months to turn that rat-trap into a viable, profitable venue. If you fail—if you miss a deadline, if you go over budget by a single penny, or if the structural integrity isn't up to code by June 30th—I tear it down. And I will personally hand you the sledgehammer to strike the first blow."
Felicity swallowed hard. The weight of it crashed down on her. Six months. It was impossible. The building needed years of work. He was setting her up to fail.
"And if I succeed?" she asked, her voice steady. "If I make it viable?"
Alistair smiled. It was a terrifying, shark-like thing. "Then you save your history. And I walk away."
He extended a hand across the table. It was a challenge. A dare.
"Do we have a deal, Ms. Monroe?"
Felicity looked at his hand. It was large, well-manicured, and capable of crushing her. But she thought of the Holloway. She thought of the dust motes dancing in the spotlight, the echo of applause, the spring floor waiting to bounce back to life.
She stood up. She reached out and grasped his hand. His skin was warm, his grip firm and dry. A jolt of electricity—pure, static shock—zinged up her arm. Alistair's eyes widened slightly, just a fraction, as if he felt it too.
"We have a deal, Mr. Stone," she said.
"Good," Alistair said, not letting go immediately. He pulled her slightly closer, invading her personal space. "But be warned, Felicity. I am not a silent partner. I will be on site every day. I will be watching every decision you make. You are not just fighting the rot in the walls. You are fighting me."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," she whispered.
He released her hand abruptly, breaking the connection. He turned to Marcus.
"Draw up the contract," Alistair commanded. "The Demolition Clause is in effect starting Monday morning. And get me a hard hat. It seems I'm going into the theatre business."