Chapter 3 Business District Encounter

Marcus stared at the quarterly reports spread across his desk, but the numbers might as well have been written in a foreign language. For the third time in an hour, he'd read the same paragraph about steel production without absorbing a word.

Two days had passed since his failed visit to the tailor shop. Two days of trying to return to his normal routine. Two days of pretending he didn't care about a woman who'd treated him like furniture.

"Sir?" Jennifer appeared in his doorway. "The Hartwell Group is here for the ten o'clock."

Marcus glanced at his watch. Nine fifty-eight. He was never late for meetings, but today he'd lost track of time.

"Send them in."

Three men in expensive suits filed into his office. Marcus recognized the type immediately - old money, inherited wealth, the kind of men who'd never worked a day in their lives but somehow ended up running companies.

"Blackwood," the lead man said, extending his hand. "Richard Hartwell. Thank you for seeing us."

Marcus shook hands with each of them, noting their soft palms and weak grips. These weren't men who built things. They were men who bought and sold what others had built.

"Please, sit." Marcus gestured to the conference table. "I understand you're interested in acquiring some of our smaller operations."

"That's right." Hartwell opened a leather portfolio. "We're particularly interested in the Riverside facility. Prime real estate, good access to transportation."

"The Riverside plant employs three hundred people," Marcus said. "They've been with us for an average of twelve years."

"Yes, well, we'd be restructuring of course. Bringing in our own management team."

Marcus felt his jaw tighten. "Restructuring."

"More efficient operations. Reduced overhead." Hartwell's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You understand."

Marcus understood perfectly. These men wanted to buy his facility, fire his workers, and strip the valuable parts for profit. It was business, nothing personal.

Six months ago, he might have considered it. The numbers made sense. The Riverside plant was profitable but not spectacularly so. Selling it would free up capital for other investments.

But sitting in his office, listening to Hartwell talk about "reduced overhead" like the workers were line items on a spreadsheet, Marcus felt something cold and sharp in his chest.

"I'm not interested," he said.

Hartwell's eyebrows rose. "We haven't discussed terms yet."

"We won't be discussing terms."

"Perhaps you'd like to think about it-"

"No." Marcus stood, effectively ending the meeting. "The Riverside facility isn't for sale."

The three men exchanged glances. Hartwell's face had gone red around the edges.

"I hope you'll reconsider," Hartwell said, standing as well. "We're prepared to make a very generous offer."

"I'm sure you are. Jennifer will show you out."

After they left, Marcus stood at his window, looking down at the city below. Somewhere out there, Elena was probably working at her sewing machine, creating something beautiful with her hands. She'd never lay off workers to increase profit margins. She'd never sell something just because someone offered her money.

The thought disturbed him more than it should have.

His phone buzzed. A text from his driver: "Ready when you are, sir."

Marcus had forgotten about his lunch appointment. Another meeting, another deal, another chance to turn money into more money. The cycle never stopped.

"I'll be down in five minutes," he texted back.

The restaurant was in the heart of the financial district, the kind of place where deals were made over expensive wine and imported steaks. Marcus arrived exactly on time, as always, and found his lunch companion already seated.

"Marcus!" The man stood to shake hands. "Good to see you."

David Morrison owned a chain of high-end boutiques throughout the city. He was old money, established wealth, the kind of man who understood that business was about relationships as much as profit.

"David. How's the family?"

"Good, good. My granddaughter's getting married next month. Big production, you know how it is."

They ordered their usual - Marcus always got the same thing, grilled salmon with no sauce, vegetables on the side. Routine was important. Routine was safe.

"So," David said after the waiter left, "I wanted to talk to you about the Harbor District development."

Marcus nodded. The Harbor District was prime real estate, old industrial buildings that could be converted into luxury condos and upscale retail. It was exactly the kind of investment that made sense.

"The numbers look good," Marcus said. "Low buy-in, high potential return."

"That's what I thought. But we need to move fast. The city council is meeting next week about zoning changes."

They discussed the details over lunch. Square footage, projected profits, construction timelines. It was the kind of conversation Marcus had three times a week, the language of business that came as naturally as breathing.

"There's just one issue," David said as they finished eating. "Some of the existing businesses are being difficult about relocating."

"What kind of businesses?"

"Small operations. Tailor shops, repair services, that sort of thing. Nothing significant."

Marcus felt his fork pause halfway to his mouth. "Tailor shops?"

"Yes, there's this little place called Rossi something. The owner is refusing to negotiate. Claims she can't afford to move."

The salmon turned to dust in Marcus's mouth. "Rossi Tailoring?"

"You know it?"

"I've heard the name."

David waved his hand dismissively. "It's not important. These small operations always cave eventually. They just need the right incentive."

"What kind of incentive?"

"Oh, you know. Raise the rent, find some code violations, make it expensive to stay. They'll take the buyout offer eventually."

Marcus set down his fork. "And if they don't?"

"Then we move forward anyway. Can't let a few holdouts derail a major development."

The rest of the lunch passed in a blur. Marcus heard himself agreeing to review the contracts, promising to get back to David within the week. But his mind was elsewhere, stuck on the image of Elena's small shop being bulldozed for luxury condos.

After lunch, Marcus walked back toward his office, his mind churning. The Harbor District development suddenly felt different. Personal. He'd sat through hundreds of similar meetings, approved dozens of similar projects. Small businesses were always casualties of progress.

But now one of those small businesses had a face.

He was so lost in thought that he almost missed her. Elena stood outside Morrison's flagship boutique, a garment bag slung over her shoulder. She wore a simple black dress and low heels, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. She looked professional, confident, completely different from the woman in work clothes he'd seen in her shop.

Marcus stopped walking, caught off guard by the coincidence. What were the chances of running into her here, just after learning about the development that threatened her livelihood?

Elena turned and saw him standing there. For a moment, surprise flickered across her face, then her expression settled into polite neutrality.

"Marcus," she said. "This is unexpected."

"I was having lunch nearby." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"I see." Elena adjusted the garment bag on her shoulder. "Well, I should get going. I have another delivery to make."

"What kind of delivery?"

"A dress for a client. She needed some last-minute alterations."

Marcus glanced at the boutique behind her. Through the window, he could see expensive clothes displayed on mannequins, the kind of place where a single dress cost more than most people made in a month.

"You do work for boutiques?" he asked.

"Sometimes. When they need something special." Elena's tone was matter-of-fact. "Custom alterations, rush jobs, that sort of thing."

"That must be good for business."

"It helps."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Elena clearly wanted to leave, but Marcus found himself reluctant to let her go. The knowledge of the development threat sat heavy in his chest.

"I should let you get back to work," he said finally.

"Yes, I should go."

But neither of them moved. Marcus studied her face, noting the way she held herself differently here in the business district. More guarded, more careful. Like she was aware she didn't quite belong.

"Elena," he said, then stopped. He didn't know what he wanted to say.

"Yes?"

"Nothing. I hope your delivery goes well."

"Thank you."

Elena walked away, her heels clicking on the pavement. Marcus watched her go, noting the straight line of her shoulders, the purposeful way she moved. Even here, surrounded by wealth and luxury, she carried herself with quiet dignity.

His phone buzzed. A text from David Morrison: "Looking forward to your decision on Harbor District. The sooner we move, the better."

Marcus stared at the message. The deal made perfect sense. Prime real estate, guaranteed profits, a chance to transform a rundown area into something valuable. It was exactly the kind of investment he'd built his empire on.

But now he could see Elena's face when she talked about her shop. The pride in her voice when she mentioned five years in business. The way her hands moved with such care over every piece of fabric.

Marcus put his phone away without responding. He walked back to his office, his mind churning with numbers and possibilities. The Harbor District development would make him millions. Elena's shop would be a casualty of progress, nothing more.

It was just business.

So why did it feel like something else entirely?