Chapter Fifteen Potential #2
Suddenly, the car comes to a stop, yanking me out of my wandering thoughts.
“We’re here, Miss Holloway,” Frank tells me.
“Oh.” I look out the window at the performance center we’re parked in front of. I’d been so lost in thought about Jayce, I didn’t even realize how much time had passed. That’s so unlike me. I’m usually so paranoid about arriving on time to places I’m constantly checking my phone. “Thanks, Frank.”
“I’ll wait for you to finish your meeting,” he tells me. “Just come outside and I’ll pick you up.”
I smile at him as I open the door. “All right. I appreciate it.”
“Good luck, Miss Holloway!”
Climbing out of the car, I shut the door and turn to face the performance center, craning my neck as I take it all in.
The building rises three stories, its facade a mix of faded sandstone and dark panels well past their prime.
Tall vertical window strips climb the front like ribs, some cracked, some fogged, some reflecting the Denver skyline in a warped, ghostly way.
Years of snow and sun have weathered the trim into a patchwork of rust, peeling paint, and stubborn grit.
The marquee stretches out over the sidewalk like a relic from a glamorous era, big retro letters clinging to its edge, half burned out, half flickering, barely hanging onto life.
I can still faintly make out the old venue name beneath layers of dust and neglect.
The underside is lined with bulb sockets, most of them empty.
A wide set of concrete steps leads up to the main entrance, which is three sets of double doors, all glass, all smudged and dulled with age.
The brass handles are tarnished, but there’s something regal about them.
I can’t help hoping they’re able to be saved.
To the right, a towering mural spans the side wall.
Faded silhouettes of dancers, musicians, and actors frozen mid-motion.
The whole building takes up nearly half a block, its size impressive even in its decay. Overgrown planters flank the entrance, filled with dead shrubs and one tenacious bush that refuses to die. The sidewalk is cracked. The paint on the loading dock doors is peeling in long curls.
And yet, I can’t help but see potential. The lines. The structure. The bones.
There’s so much that can be done here.
Sucking in a deep breath, I make my way up to the entrance and through one of the unlocked glass doors.
“Hello?” I call, stepping into the lobby. “Mr. Romero?”
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to find a tall, handsome man who looks to be in his sixties walking toward me with a smile. He has thick, silver hair and is dressed in dark slacks and a gray sweater. As he approaches, I can see his eyes are a deep blue.
Damn. I get why Aunt Delilah is into him. He’s giving major George Clooney aging like fine wine vibes.
“Sutton?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s me.” I offer him my hand. He gives it a firm shake. “Thanks for meeting with me, Mr. Romero. I really appreciate this opportunity.”
“I’m happy to do it,” he assures me. “Delilah spoke so highly of you. Said you were brilliant and beautiful. I think she might have undersold you a bit, though.”
I give him what I know is a charming smile and reply, “Well, she had nothing but praise for you, Mr. Romero. I’m quite eager to get to know you and your vision for this project.”
He releases my hand and stands back, looking around us.
“So, what do you think of the place so far?” he asks, getting straight to business.
I take a moment to gaze around the lobby and take in all the details I can. Dust floats through the beams of sunlight slicing down through cracked skylights, and exposed wiring hangs from the ceiling. It’s outdated, neglected, and a little sad.
“There’s a lot of potential,” I say at length. “But it will definitely require a lot of work to bring this place up to date.”
“You have a vision for it?”
Tone confident, I reply, “Absolutely. I’ve looked into the layout of the building already and put together some initial ideas. They’re on my laptop.”
He grins, looking pleased. “Then let’s see the rest of the place and you can describe your vision to me.”
I follow him to another set of large doors that lead into the main hall. It’s enormous, with vaulted ceilings, sweeping balconies, and the giant domed roof overhead. Outdated and dilapidated, but kind of gorgeous in its own way.
“It was state-of-the-art in 1997,” Jackson says, hands clasped behind him as he gazes across the space. “Unfortunately, the rest of the world kept moving forward.”
I pace down the aisle, fingers lightly skimming the worn seat backs. Pulling out my laptop, I flip it into tablet mode and start jotting down notes with my stylus. “Acoustics will need a full overhaul. The rigging too. And those ceiling panels…”
“Yes!” he interrupts, snapping his fingers. “That’s what I like to hear. Most contractors walk in and talk about costs. You walked in and started redesigning.”
I smile, proud of myself.
He leads me onto the stage, stepping carefully around broken light fixtures and dusty cables. “I want this to blow the Sphere in Vegas out of the water. Holographics, immersive soundscapes, dynamic stage transformations. The works.”
“You want a fully interactive environment,” I say, already picturing it. “Reactive lighting. Modular stage frames. Maybe even motion-tracking for performers.”
His head whips toward me. “Exactly. The future of performance. Actors, musicians, dancers…everyone should feel like they’re stepping inside a world that responds to them.”
We move backstage, weaving through narrow tunnels and staircases that smell like old wood and electrical burn.
He tells me stories about the building’s early days, including the big names who performed here, the Broadway tours that used to stop through, and the orchestra that once called this place home.
“You know,” he says as we pass a long, dim dressing hallway, “my nephew came here for his first concert. Walked out saying it was ‘life-changing.’” He chuckles. “He was eight at the time.”
I laugh with him. “Are you and your nephew close?”
“He’s the closest thing I have to a son.” He gives me a sidelong look. “You must meet him sometime. Young, successful, handsome. Terrible taste in women, though. Needs someone with both feet on the ground.”
I nearly trip over an extension cord. “Oh…um…thank you, Sir. I’d like that.”
He waves off my awkwardness. “Just planting seeds.”
He continues walking, pointing out underground storage, the orchestra pit, the ventilation system that looks like a relic from another century. “I want all of this redone. Smarter. Faster. Greener.”
“Geothermal cooling is an option,” I say. “Or solar integration, depending on the exterior structure.”
Jackson grins and mutters, “Your aunt was right. You’re brilliant.”
I try not to make it obvious how thrilled I am by his compliment.
It’s good to hear someone appreciate my skills and ideas.
Mom and Dad only ever seem interested in me when they’re trying to get me married and settled.
I don’t really feel like they care about my career sometimes, so having someone like Jackson Romero speaking highly of this aspect of me makes me feel like I’m flying high.
However, it also tightens the pressure in my chest. I want this project so badly I can taste it.
We eventually loop back toward the lobby, passing a cracked, old concession stand and a ticket booth with peeling paint.
“I see potential everywhere,” I tell him, unable to hold it in anymore. “The architecture. The bones. The flow of traffic. There’s so much you can do here.”
“It seems we’re on the same wavelength,” he says, cutting me off gently. “You’ve convinced me, Miss Holloway, and if it were only up to me, I’d hire you right here and not. However, you will have to convince the board as well.”
My step falters. “The board?”
He clasps his hands together. “Of course. This is a multimillion-dollar rebuild, Sutton, and an exclusive contract with my company for other upcoming projects. The final pitch must be a large-scale presentation. To me, the directors, and the investors. All the bidding firms will be required to give one on April 24th.”
My stomach sinks like a stone in water. My parents were right. I hate to admit it, but they totally called it.
“A full presentation,” I repeat slowly.
“Yes!” he beams. “Showmanship, vision, numbers, innovation. Give them all a taste of your vision so they can see it just as clearly as you.”
My throat goes dry.
I’m confident in a one-on-one situation like this.
I’m passionate, and I love talking about my ideas.
But holy shit…a presentation in front of a group.
Mom said it would be likely, but I was secretly hoping I’d wow Jackson enough that he wouldn’t need me to do more than this meeting.
A stupid thought, I know, and now I have to speak to more people.
An entire board. A high-stakes pitch. A project that could make, or break, my career.
No fucking pressure.
Later, when the meeting is over, I get into the car and as Frank drives me back to Jayce’s building, I try not to lose my absolute shit. A full presentation. Public speaking in front of a group. Fuck, how am I going to do this?
I think back on the last presentation I tried to give at work.
It was in a conference room at Holloway.
It was one of my first real presentations after graduating and Dad had insisted I take the lead on it.
He said it would be good experience and that the clients needed to start seeing me as part of the future of the company.
I remember feeling proud when he told me that. Nervous, sure, but proud.
I’d spent days preparing, but the moment I stood at the head of the long glass table and saw all those eyes on me, the same awful feeling had come rushing back that I’d experienced in school. My chest tightened and my lungs refused to cooperate.
I remember clicking to the first slide, my hand already trembling.
When I tried to speak, the words got stuck in my throat and the room started to blur.
My hands started shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the table to stay upright.
My breathing turned shallow and frantic, my vision tunneling until the only thing I could focus on was the sound of my own gasping breaths.
That’s when my dad stood up.
“Let’s take a short break,” he’d said calmly, stepping beside me before anyone else could react.
He’d taken control of the presentation after that, guiding the clients’ attention back to the slides while steering me toward the door and away from the room as quickly as possible.
Afterward, he’d told me not to worry about it. Nerves happen, and I’d get better with time.
I’d seen the concern in his eyes, though. The disappointment.
I squeeze my eyes shut in the back seat. Fuck, it feels like that only happened yesterday. My stomach churns again.
Shit, I can’t fall apart like that. I need to figure out some way to get through it.
If I can close this deal, I’ll be set. I won’t have to pretend to be with Jayce to keep my parents off my back.
The engagement is buying me time, but it can’t last forever, and if this plan doesn’t work, I’ll be right back where I started.
No, actually, I’ll be even worse off. I might be stuck as Mrs. Leon Reynolds.
Shuddering at the mere thought, I pull my phone out and shoot a quick text to the girls, telling them I’ll see them at the bar tonight and will dish on all the details about the meeting and Jayce.
Maybe talking it through will help me come up with some way to give this presentation without completely fucking it up.
God, I seriously cannot fuck this up.