Chapter 2Victor
Chapter Two
Victor
After some time staring at the scenery, I force my attention back to my phone. I temporarily ignore the slew of text messages and emails cluttering my screen and start looking at the headlines. These reporters work fast, which means I need to work faster. I've seen what they can do in the past. The reports—the kind that turn stomachs and twist narratives into ugly caricatures of the truth—can derail projects faster than a bad bank loan.
The buzz of my phone slices through the silence, snapping me back from my measured anxiety. I don’t even have to glance at the caller ID; there’s only one person who would be calling.
"Stone," I answer, already bracing myself .
"Victor, it’s not looking good." Even without the visual, I can picture my lawyer's furrowed brow, the way he'd be shuffling through papers as if the answers might just spring up from the chaos. I met Timothy Hatch shortly after I graduated from college and was one of his first clients. He's always been loyal, and I've never taken that for granted.
"Caught the tail end of the news, did you?"
"Unfortunately." His voice is flat, the resignation heavy on his tongue. "Here’s the straight shot—unless you flip this PR disaster on its head, the Board of Supervisors won’t touch your development proposal with a ten-foot pole."
"Come on," I grunt out the protest, my eyes narrowing as a flicker of anger sparks deep in my chest. I suppress the feeling, pushing it down. The planning commission was supposed to be the hard part. "Why? They know what this project means for the community."
"Politics, Victor. It’s all a game to them." I can hear the shuffle of papers stop, his tone dropping to that conspiratorial whisper reserved for imparting unpleasant truths. "They’re elected officials, not appointees like the commission. If the public outcry doesn’t die down, backing your project could be political suicide."
"Great." Sarcasm drips heavily from the single word. The line goes quiet for an excruciating second before I add, "So what’s the play here? "
"Damage control, and fast. You need to change the narrative, get ahead of this."
"Right." I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting back the rising tide of frustration. "I'll handle it."
"Good luck, Victor. Keep me posted."
"Will do." But as I end the call, the weight of the challenge ahead presses against my shoulders like a lead cloak.
I toss the phone down onto the leather seat next to me, a snarl curling my lip as the echo of bad news rattles around in my skull. It's like a punch to the gut—this development is my baby, my chance to pump life into a place that's been gasping for air too damn long. I turn, my eyes catching Marcus's through the rearview mirror.
"Hey, Marcus, you’ve got ears to the ground, right? What’s your take on this mess?"
Marcus, calm as always, just meets my gaze in the mirror. "People are scared, Mr. Stone. Change is scary, especially when it threatens to uproot your whole life."
"Scared of what?" I bite back. "Jobs? Cleaner streets?"
He shrugs, eyes on the road now. "Maybe scared of losing their home, their identity. This town’s got a feel to it, history. They don’t want to lose that to some shiny new buildings."
"Identity," I mutter, scoffing at the idea. The concept gnaws at me, and I find words spilling out before I can stop them. "You know, I grew up bouncing from one rundown place to another. Foster care doesn’t exactly plant you in the suburbs." My hand balls into a fist. "I would've killed for the kind of opportunity this development brings."
"Understandable," he says, glancing at me again. "But maybe they feel like they’re about to be bounced out, too. Just like you were back then."
"Except I’m bringing opportunities, not taking them away," I snap, the heat of my frustration simmering beneath my skin.
"Opportunities they might not see, or might not believe in," Marcus points out, his voice even. "Sometimes people need to see the promise of tomorrow in the reality of today."
I sink back into the plush leather seat, staring out the window at the blur of leafless trees racing by. Memories creep up, uninvited—ice-cold ponds, the scrape of skates, the hollow promise of 'forever' that never came. The sting of disappointment is sharp, even now.
"Thanks, Marcus," I say after a beat, softer than I mean to.
I swipe open my phone, the screen illuminating a string of unread emails. The subject lines are a chorus of concern, each one echoing the last with investors' anxiety over the news reports they’ve seen. My thumb hovers, hesitating before I tap into the storm.
"Victor," one starts, "seen the news? We need to talk about public perception ASAP." Another chimes in, " This isn’t what we signed up for. How do you plan to handle this?"
"Everything is under control," I type back, fingers flying over the virtual keys. "We’ll turn this around by the board meeting. No opposition will stand in our way." Empty promises? Maybe. But I’ll move heaven and earth to make them true.
Sent. Done. Now, onto damage control.
I dial my office line.
"Hey, it’s Victor," I say the instant Angela, my assistant, answers. "I need the PR team on their A-game. I want strategies for handling this mess waiting on my desk when I get back."
"Of course, Victor. They’re already brainstorming," she assures me, her voice all business.
"Good. Make sure they think outside the box. We can’t afford cookie-cutter fixes here. This needs... finesse." My mind races—there has to be a way to spin this, to show people the good that can come from change.
"Understood. Anything else?" Angela asks, ready to jot down any command I throw at her.
"Make it clear, Angela. This isn’t just another project. It’s personal. I want that message front and center." There’s a part of me that flinches saying it out loud, admitting the tie between this development and my own battered past .
"Personal. Got it," she confirms. "Anything about your background?"
"Just... keep it vague. Enough to show I’m not some heartless tycoon." The words taste bitter, but if my story can win this, then maybe those years weren’t for nothing.
"Will do. See you soon, Victor."
"Thanks." And with that, I hang up, leaning my head against the cool car window. It’s time to play the game, to dance the dance. For once, my past isn’t a weakness. Maybe, it’s my ace in the hole.