A Thorny Introduction
2
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NOAH'S POV
The first thing I notice as I drive into Portside Bay is how time seems to stand still here. This place has the sort of charm big cities try to replicate with exposed brick storefronts and overpriced organic markets. But here, it’s authentic. The rolling hills, pastel-painted shops, and the salty tang of the ocean in the air—it’s picturesque. Quiet.
And undeniably stuck in the past.
I park in front of the town hall, leaning back against the leather seat for a moment. The weight of what I’m trying to accomplish presses against my chest, heavier than usual. I’ve spent years as a surgeon in some of the busiest hospitals in the country, working fifteen-hour shifts, piecing broken lives back together one incision at a time. But I didn’t come here to keep stitching people up after the damage is already done.
This town deserves better than band-aid solutions. They need infrastructure. Advanced facilities. Modern healthcare practices that prevent the worst from happening in the first place.
Grabbing my leather portfolio from the passenger seat, I step out and straighten my jacket, brushing away the faint wrinkles from the drive. Tonight’s town hall meeting will be my first chance to address the community. To lay out my vision for the Portside Bay Medical Center and get them to see the bigger picture.
The investors are on board, the plans are approved. Now, I need to ensure the people understand what they stand to gain.
In the back of my mind, I hear my father’s voice: Convince them with reason. Inspire them with heart. He’d said it the night before my first surgery. I’ve carried those words with me into every challenge since.
As I approach the town hall, my thoughts flicker to the clinic I visited yesterday. It’s... quaint, to put it kindly. Shelves packed with jars and tinctures that belong in a historical apothecary. The kind of place where time holds its breath, where even the air feels steeped in memory.
And then there’s Lena Torres.
Her name came up in nearly every conversation I’ve had since I arrived—usually in reverent tones. The granddaughter of Maria Torres, a local legend who’d left a gaping void in the town with her recent passing. From what I gathered, Lena’s visit here is temporary. She’s tying up loose ends, honoring her grandmother’s legacy before returning to her own life.
I hadn’t expected to meet her so soon, let alone for her to challenge me the way she did.
Her dark eyes burned with defiance when she shook my hand, her grip firm like she was daring me to prove her assumptions wrong. She’s fierce—passionate in a way that’s impossible to ignore. And captivating.
The memory lingers, even as I step inside the town hall. The low hum of chatter surrounds me, residents seated in neatly arranged folding chairs, their expressions a mix of wariness and curiosity. A few pairs of eyes flick toward me as I enter, whispers rippling through the room.
I let my gaze sweep over the crowd, pausing briefly on Lena. She sits near the front, her back straight, her focus unyielding. The air between us seems to crackle with tension, a current I can’t quite explain.
I inhale deeply and move toward the back corner of the room, grounding myself in the task ahead. I have a presentation to deliver, questions to answer, a vision to sell.
But even as I focus on the murmurs of the crowd and the shuffle of papers in my hands, I can’t shake the memory of Lena standing in her grandmother’s clinic, facing me like I was the villain in a story she already knew the ending to.
It’s unsettling how much her reaction lingers—and infuriating.
This is where it starts. Whether Lena Torres likes it or not, Portside Bay is going to change.
I’m used to people questioning my ideas, doubting my plans, even outright opposing them. But Lena didn’t just question me; she challenged everything I stand for.
Her words replay in my mind, sharp and unrelenting. She didn’t just talk about the clinic her grandmother built—she spoke about it like it was the heart of this town, like its survival meant more than any advanced piece of medical equipment I could offer. “We don’t need another institution that treats people like numbers,” she’d said, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “My grandmother’s clinic gave people hope when nothing else could.”
She’s wrong, though. Hope isn’t enough. Hope doesn’t save a man having a heart attack or fix a fractured pelvis after a car crash. Modern medicine does that. Machines, expertise, and well-funded facilities save lives.
And yet...
Her voice cuts through my thoughts again, vivid and unwavering. “Progress? Is that what you call it? Throwing money at machines and overpriced treatments? People don’t need sterile facilities that make them feel like numbers on a chart. They need someone who sees them. Someone who understands healing isn’t one-size-fits-all.”
The words replay in my mind, sharp and relentless, as if she’s still standing right in front of me, gripping the edge of that podium like it’s the only thing holding her steady. Her fiery conviction lingers, as does the heat in her gaze when she locked eyes with me and said, “You think you can fix everything with your gadgets and pills, but you’re missing the essence of true healing.”
I scoff under my breath, pacing the room as if the movement will shake her words loose from my mind. The image of her accusing stare is burned into my memory, but so is the raw truth embedded in her words. She talked about trust, gardens, cooking classes, walking trails—things that seem laughably small next to a state-of-the-art hospital. And yet, the way she spoke of them made me pause.
I’ve always believed in science. Machines and advanced treatments save lives. Cold, hard facts over emotional appeals. It’s what makes me good at what I do—what’s driven every project I’ve taken on. But Lena Torres... she challenges all of that with an intensity I can’t ignore.
“People deserve the best possible care,” I mutter to myself, repeating my argument from earlier. “Not just home remedies and... wishful thinking.”
But even as I say it, her voice echoes back, sharper this time: “You want to replace the warmth of a healing touch with cold machines. That’s not progress. That’s erasing the very thing that makes us human.”
I let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. She doesn’t understand what it takes to build something like this—to bring cutting-edge care to a place that’s been left behind by the modern world. Yet... a small part of me wonders if I don’t fully understand what she’s fighting for, either.
The truth is, she’s not wrong about everything. Preventive care matters. Education matters. A healthier community doesn’t just happen in operating rooms; it starts long before that. But to say those things can replace a state-of-the-art medical center? That’s where she’s wrong.
“Hospitals save lives,” I mutter, trying to convince myself more than anything. “Technology saves lives.”
Still, I can’t shake the image of her standing in that old clinic, surrounded by jars of herbs and dried flowers, her hands gesturing wildly, her eyes alight with conviction. She wasn’t just defending her grandmother’s legacy; she was defending the people who trusted it. And she did it with a kind of passion I haven’t seen in a long time. Maybe ever.
I almost laughed at her earlier—at the way she painted the past like it was a utopia. But I know better. The cracks were there even before the corporations rolled in. Doctors left not because they didn’t care, but because the system gave them no choice. Small towns like Portside Bay couldn’t compete with bigger opportunities in the city. The corporations may have been the final blow, but the foundation was already crumbling.
And yet, Lena believes in something better. She believes it so fiercely, she makes me wonder if I’ve been too quick to dismiss her vision. I don’t get distracted. I’ve spent years honing my focus, keeping emotions at arm’s length when it comes to my work. But this woman—with her messy bun, rolled-up sleeves, and relentless determination—has me questioning everything.
I glance around the town hall, barely registering the faces of the townspeople as the meeting drags on. Their voices blur, their concerns mixing into a low hum I can’t focus on.
The meeting finally wraps up after an hour of updates from the mayor and council. As people start filing out, I head toward the exit, needing air. The cool night greets me as I step outside, but it does little to calm the whirlpool in my mind.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, the screen flashing a number I don’t recognize. Normally, I’d let it go to voicemail, but something compels me to answer.
“Noah Grant,” I say, my voice clipped.
There’s a pause. It stretches long enough that I almost hang up, but then a low, distorted voice crackles through the line.
“You’re making enemies, Grant.”
I stop mid-step, my body tensing. “Who is this?”
The voice on the other end is calm, measured. “Let’s just say not everyone in Portside Bay is thrilled about your project.”
The chill in the air suddenly feels sharper. “Is that a threat?” I ask, my tone cold and steady.
“Call it a warning,” the voice replies, eerily smooth. “If you keep pushing without understanding the community’s needs... there will be consequences.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my hand, the weight of the call settling in my chest. The night around me feels darker, the quiet hum of the small-town streets suddenly carrying a menacing undertone.
This isn’t just about Lena’s fiery speeches or the council’s skepticism anymore. Someone wants me to stop—someone willing to cross lines to make their point.
But I don’t back down from challenges.
With a deep breath, I pocket my phone and glance up at the clear night sky. Whatever battle I’ve stepped into, it’s not going to be won with half-measures.
Portside Bay may think it knows what’s best for its future, but I’m not about to let fear or resistance stand in the way of real progress.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath my tires breaks the quiet morning air as I pull into the construction site. Against the pale horizon, the skeletal frame of the medical center rises, all steel beams and scaffolding. It’s not much yet, but to me, it represents years of planning, endless hours of work, and a significant piece of my fortune.
I step out of the car, my shoes sinking slightly into the loose dirt. The foreman waves at me from across the site, clipboard in hand. I nod back but don’t approach him yet. Instead, I walk the perimeter, taking in the steady hum of machinery and the shouts of workers as they maneuver equipment into place.
The call from last night still gnaws at the edges of my thoughts, refusing to fade. Opposition is nothing new to me—angry locals, skeptical investors, bureaucratic roadblocks—but there was something about that warning. It felt... personal.
I shake it off, forcing my focus back to the task at hand. This site is the future of healthcare in Portside Bay, whether Lena Torres wants to admit it or not.
As I round the corner near the temporary office trailer, muffled voices catch my attention. At first, I think it’s just workers discussing their tasks for the day. But as I draw closer, the tone shifts—lower, sharper, and far more deliberate.
“I’m just saying, this funding... it doesn’t add up,” one man says, his voice tinged with unease.
“It’s not our job to ask questions,” another replies, his tone gruff and dismissive. “We’re here to build, not investigate.”
“Yeah, but don’t you think it’s weird? Money coming in from out of state, no clear paper trail... It’s like they don’t want anyone looking too closely.”
I freeze, instinctively pressing myself against the side of the trailer, the chill of the metal seeping through my jacket.
“Keep your head down,” the gruff voice continues. “We’ve got a job to finish, and I don’t need you stirring up trouble. Let the suits worry about where the money’s coming from.”
“Fine,” the first man mutters, though his tone carries a lingering edge of doubt.
Their footsteps crunch away, leaving me rooted in place. My breath comes out slow, measured, but inside, my mind races.
Unusual funding. Out-of-state money. No clear paper trail.
The words echo in my head as I step back onto the path, my gaze shifting toward the unfinished framework of the medical center. This project has always been aboveboard—meticulously planned and executed. I personally vetted every contract, every deal. Didn’t I?
I climb a set of temporary stairs to get a better view of the site, but my thoughts remain elsewhere, spinning through fragments of conversations and contracts from the past year. Could I have missed something? Could someone on my team be hiding things from me?
The foreman approaches, pulling me from my thoughts. “Mr. Grant, we’re about to start pouring the foundation for the east wing. Thought you’d want to check it out.”
I force a practiced smile, masking the unease bubbling beneath the surface. “Lead the way.”
As we walk, I nod in all the right places, but my mind is already elsewhere. I make a mental note to dig deeper into the financials tonight. If there’s even a shred of truth to what I overheard, I need to uncover it before it’s too late.
By the time I leave the site, the sun is high, casting sharp shadows across the town. I get into my car and sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.
This project is supposed to be my legacy—a testament to everything I’ve worked for. Now, cracks are appearing in the foundation. And it’s not just the plans I’m worried about. It’s the realization that I might not have as much control as I thought.
The buzz of my phone jolts me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen, expecting another anonymous call. Instead, it’s a text from an unknown number.
You’re asking the wrong questions. Talk to Lena Torres if you want answers.
A cold knot tightens in my stomach. First the call, now this. Whoever is behind these warnings seems to think Lena is the key to something bigger.
I set the phone down, my jaw tightening. Whether I like it or not, it seems my path and Lena’s are destined to cross again—and much sooner than I’d planned.