In late January, I did something impulsive and practical at the same time.
I sold the waterfront property.
Not to a developer. Not to someone like Rachel.
I sold it to a local conservation group for less than I could’ve gotten, with one condition: the land would stay public. A walking trail. A small park. Something open.
Frank called it petty philanthropy.
I called it closing a loop.
Riverside didn’t need another gated slice of privilege. It needed spaces where people could breathe without proving they deserved it.
When the paperwork finalized, I drove out to the property alone and walked the shoreline. The lake was frozen in places, cracked like glass. Wind cut across my face, sharp and honest.
For a minute, I pictured Rachel standing here, imagining it as hers forever, imagining money as armor.
Armor rusts.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and kept walking.
In February, my warehouse hosted a volunteer day as part of a community outreach program. It wasn’t glamorous—sorting donated supplies, loading trucks for a regional food bank—but it felt good in the way real work always does.
That’s where I met Noah Kline.
He wasn’t my type in any way I would’ve described a year earlier. He wore a beat-up beanie and a hoodie with paint stains. His hands were rough, his smile easy, and he had the calm presence of someone who didn’t need to be the loudest person in the room to be noticed.
He offered to carry a heavy box I already had under control.
“I got it,” I said automatically.
He grinned. “I know you got it. I’m offering anyway.”
I almost laughed, caught off guard by how normal that felt.