Unlikely Allies
3
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LENA'S POV
The morning sun spills through the clinic’s windows, casting golden beams that dance across the rows of glass jars lining the shelves. Each handwritten label, meticulously crafted by my grandmother’s steady hands, is a reminder of her care and precision. The peaceful surroundings should feel grounding, but my heart is anything but settled. The town council meeting last night drained me, leaving my thoughts tangled in the heat of arguments and the heavy weight of expectations pressing against my chest.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my spiral.
“Come in,” I call, setting aside the stack of patient notes I’ve been pretending to organize.
The door creaks open, revealing Agnes Hill, one of Portside Bay’s oldest and most trusted residents. Her silver hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and she clutches a well-worn canvas bag to her chest as though it carries the weight of the world. Agnes has always been a quiet, steadfast presence in town—the kind of woman who speaks only when it truly matters. My grandmother trusted her implicitly, and seeing her here stirs both comfort and unease.
“Lena,” she says, her voice gentle yet firm, the way a teacher addresses a promising but distracted student. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” I gesture toward the chair across from my desk. “Please, sit.”
Agnes settles into the chair with a deliberate calm, smoothing her skirt before meeting my gaze. “I’ve been meaning to come by since Maria passed. It’s hard to imagine this town without her.”
Her words press against the raw edges of my grief, and I nod, my throat tightening. “It’s been hard for me, too,” I admit. “But I’m trying to carry on her work the best I can.”
She nods, her eyes scanning the room, lingering on the rows of herbs and tinctures. “Maria always said you had her spirit. I see it in you.” She pauses, her expression shifting, growing heavier. “But there’s something I need to talk to you about. Something I think your grandmother would have wanted you to know.”
I straighten in my chair, the gravity in her tone sharpening my focus. “What is it?”
Agnes leans forward, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “There are whispers, Lena. Whispers about the hospital project—and the people funding it. It’s not just about building a facility for care. There are hidden agendas at play. Agendas that could change this town forever.”
A chill snakes up my spine. “Do you know who’s behind it?”
Her fingers tighten around the straps of her bag as she glances toward the window, as if expecting someone to be listening in. “Not exactly,” she says, her voice cautious. “But Maria had her suspicions. She always believed the town’s strength lay in its unity. She worried that outside forces would exploit that—would divide us if we weren’t careful. She told me once, ‘When money talks, the heart of a place gets drowned out.’ ”
Her words land heavily, like stones sinking into deep water. My grandmother’s warnings replay in my mind, and suddenly her cryptic note feels all the more ominous.
“And you think this hospital project is one of those outside forces?” I ask, my voice steady but laced with apprehension.
Agnes nods slowly. “I do. Your grandmother fought so hard to keep Portside Bay’s identity intact—to protect its people from those who see it as nothing more than a means to an end. Now that she’s gone, I’m afraid they’ll steamroll right over us.”
Her words hang in the air, weighty and undeniable. My mind races, connecting fragments of conversations, lingering doubts, and the threads of unease I’ve felt ever since I returned.
“Did she ever say anything specific about the project? Or the people behind it?”
Agnes shakes her head. “Not by name. But she always said to ‘follow the money.’ She believed the truth would come out eventually—it always does.”
The gravity in her expression twists something inside me. If my grandmother saw this threat coming and tried to warn us, I can’t sit back and let her fight be in vain.
The room feels smaller, the air heavier. Memories of last night’s town council meeting resurface, and with them, Noah Grant’s smooth confidence and dismissive tone. The way he brushed off my concerns like they were an inconvenience—it makes my blood boil all over again.
Agnes’s words replay in my mind: “Stay vigilant. Ask questions. Dig deeper.”
“What can I do?” I had asked her, my voice trembling under the weight of her warning.
She placed her weathered hand over mine, her touch grounding. “You have your grandmother’s fire, Lena. Use it.”
Now, as I sit in the clinic with the journal Agnes gave me, her words echo like a battle cry. The leather-bound book feels heavier than it should, as though it carries every sacrifice my grandmother made, every secret she couldn’t bear to share.
I flip it open, the familiar scrawl of my grandmother’s handwriting pulling at my heart. The first page stops me cold:
I did what I had to do to protect us. Forgive me.
The words loop in my mind, relentless. Protect us from what? Or who?
Before I can sink further into the spiral of questions, my phone buzzes on the desk. Marianne’s name lights up the screen. I swipe the notification open, scanning her message:
Lead on funding sources. Need you to check it out.
I take a steadying breath. Marianne is more than just a family friend; she was my grandmother’s right hand. Her quiet efficiency and unshakable support kept the clinic running smoothly, even when my grandmother faced the toughest challenges. She’s been like family to me, a beacon of calm in the storm of my grief.
But Marianne’s message feels more like a summons than a simple text. She insists I meet someone—someone who might have answers about the hospital project and its tangled web of funding.
I glance at the name she’s sent, and my stomach twists. Noah Grant.
Of course, it’s him. The last person I want to deal with right now is the self-assured project manager with his maddening mix of confidence and charm. The memory of his words from the town hall lingers like an echo in my mind, each one grating against the raw edges of my frustration.
His unwavering belief in his vision for the town—his vision, not the town’s—is enough to set my teeth on edge. He speaks with such conviction, as if he alone knows what’s best for Portside Bay, brushing off my concerns as if they’re quaint but misguided.
Still, if there’s even a sliver of truth in Marianne’s insistence that he might know more about the mysterious funding behind the hospital project, I have no choice but to confront him.
I sink into the worn chair behind my grandmother’s desk, running my fingers over the wood’s familiar grooves, carved by years of use. My mind whirls, piecing together everything I know—or think I know—about the hospital project.
The financials don’t add up. The project’s scale, its state-of-the-art promises, its sleek marketing—it all feels too grand for a small town like Portside Bay. Where is the money coming from? And why hasn’t anyone been able to get a clear answer?
I push back against the resentment bubbling in my chest. This isn’t about my feelings toward Noah Grant or my doubts about his shiny new hospital. It’s about uncovering the truth—whatever it might be.
Taking a deep breath, I grab my bag and head for the door.
The makeshift office is a temporary trailer near the construction site, an unassuming structure that contrasts sharply with the polished image Noah seems to carry everywhere.
I hesitate at the door, steeling myself before knocking.
“Come in,” his voice calls from inside, deep and steady.
The door creaks as I push it open, and there he is, leaning over a desk cluttered with blueprints and documents. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with just enough scruff to be distracting. He looks up, and for a moment, amusement flickers in his piercing blue eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t Portside Bay’s resident firebrand,” he says, leaning casually against the desk, an infuriatingly smug smile tugging at his lips. “What brings you to my humble office?”
I ignore the bait, keeping my voice steady. “I’m here because we both have a problem. And whether we like it or not, we might need to work together to solve it.”
His eyebrow arches, curiosity replacing smugness. “Interesting. Do go on.”
From my bag, I pull out the journal and hold it up. “This belonged to my grandmother. I think it might have information about the people funding your hospital project.”
His expression shifts, the teasing glint in his eyes dimming. “And you’re sharing this with me because...?”
“Because I want the truth,” I say firmly. “And if there’s anything shady about this project, I have no doubt your name will be attached to it.”
He smirks, shaking his head. “Always so quick to make me the villain, aren’t you?”
“Can you blame me?” My temper flares, heat rising in my chest. “You waltz into this town with your big-city plans and complete disregard for what this community actually needs. You’re so focused on building your shiny hospital that you can’t see the damage it’s going to do.”
He crosses his arms, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. “You think I don’t care about this community?”
“You care about what makes you look good,” I snap. “Maybe a shiny new hospital does that. But people here don’t need more prescriptions they can’t afford or surgeries they don’t trust. They need gardens, education, real ways to take care of themselves.”
Something flickers in his expression—hurt? Frustration? It’s hard to tell. He steps closer, and the air between us charges with a tension I don’t understand.
“You have no idea what I care about, Lena,” he says, his voice low but intense.
I open my mouth to fire back, but the words catch in my throat. His eyes search mine, and for a moment, it feels like he’s trying to tell me something without saying it.
The moment stretches, the silence between us growing heavier until I break it by looking away. “Look,” I say, softer now. “This isn’t about you or me. It’s about the people here. And if there’s something off about this project, they deserve to know. Can we at least agree on that?”
He doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter, almost resigned. “Fine. A truce. For now.”
As we pack up the files, the weight of what we’ve uncovered presses down on me, heavy and unrelenting. The pages we’ve sifted through tell a story darker than I could have imagined—a story of manipulation, control, and greed that threatens everything my grandmother worked so hard to protect. Yet, amidst the suffocating tension, there’s an unexpected flicker of something else.
Purpose.
For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m standing alone, shouting into the void. Noah’s sharp focus, his willingness to question everything he’s been told, creates a fragile sense of solidarity. It’s a tenuous connection, but it’s enough to keep me grounded.
As we step outside, the cool night air is a welcome reprieve, wrapping around me and chasing away the stale smell of old paper and ink that still clings to my clothes. The stars overhead seem brighter here, uninhibited by the glow of city lights. Normally, I’d find comfort in the quiet beauty of Portside Bay’s night sky, but tonight, the weight of our discoveries keeps my mind churning.
I consider walking away, retreating back into the familiar solitude that feels safer than whatever this is—this strange partnership with Noah Grant. But as I glance at him, his sharp profile illuminated by the glow of the streetlamp, I’m struck by the intensity in his expression.
His blue eyes lock onto mine, steady and unyielding, and for a moment, it’s like the world around us ceases to exist. The faint hum of the air conditioning, the muted rustle of papers —it all fades, leaving just us in the charged space between determination and defiance.
But it’s not just his eyes. It’s the way his jaw tightens, sharp and defined, as if he’s physically holding back words that might give away too much. The cut of his cheekbones catches the light, highlighting a rugged symmetry that feels unfairly deliberate, like the universe crafted him to be impossible to ignore.
There’s no smugness in his gaze now, none of that infuriating condescension that seems to trail behind him like an afterthought. What’s left is raw, undiluted intensity—a fierce determination that mirrors my own but feels heavier, like it’s forged from something deeper.
I force myself to look away, but my eyes betray me, sliding to the curve of his shoulders. His shirt strains just slightly over his broad frame, hinting at the strength beneath. He leans casually against the desk, but there’s nothing casual about the way his body commands the room, every inch of him screaming control and presence.
And then there’s his hands—long, steady fingers resting against the desk, the faintest hint of veins running beneath his skin. Hands that could be as precise in the operating room as they seem to be when flipping through files or gesturing in quiet command. I hate that I notice them, that I wonder what they’d feel like, firm and warm, against—
I shake the thought away, heat rising to my cheeks. What is wrong with me? This is Noah Grant—arrogant, infuriating Noah Grant. The man who’s trying to bulldoze everything my grandmother stood for.
And yet, here I am, betraying myself with thoughts I have no business thinking.
He takes a step closer, the space between us shrinking. The air feels heavier, as if it’s charged with something neither of us is willing to name. “Lena,” he says, his voice lower, softer, but still edged with that relentless determination.
I meet his gaze again, and it’s a mistake. There’s a heat there, simmering just beneath the surface, like an ember waiting for a gust of wind to set it ablaze.
My breath catches, but I force myself to stand taller, to focus on the battle we’re fighting, not the man standing too close, looking too good. ‘This isn’t about us,’ I say again, but this in my head this time. To myself.
But the problem is, for a fleeting second, it feels like it is.
“We’re not done yet,” he says quietly, his voice cutting through the stillness like a vow.
I nod, the words settling into me like a promise. “No,” I reply, my voice firm and resolute. “We’re just getting started.”