Chapter 13 - Knocking on the Wrong DoorThe neighborhood along the industrial canal looked even grayer under the late-afternoon autumn drizzle. I parked my car three blocks away and walked the rest of the distance on foot, my boots splashing through the same muddy puddles where I had tossed that fifty-dollar bill just a week ago.
When I reached the rotting wooden shack, I hesitated, my knuckles raised to knock on the weathered door. Before I could strike the wood, it creaked open.
Lucy stood there in a grease-stained gray hoodie and faded jeans, wiping her hands on a rag. She froze when she saw me standing on her threshold, her dark eyes narrowing slightly.
"Did you take a wrong turn on your way to the country club, Alexander?" she asked, her voice dry, though there was no real malice in it.
"I came to offer you a job," I said quietly.
Lucy stared at me for a long moment, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. "A job? What, are you looking for someone to clean out your corporate executive washrooms?"
"I’m looking for a Chief Operations Officer," I replied, holding her gaze without blinking. "The board approved the restructuring plan this morning. We’re cutting ties with all the corrupt overseas brokers Marcus used, and we’re pivoting entirely to domestic artisan manufacturing. You know every independent supplier in the tri-state area better than anyone alive."
Lucy stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, studying my face as if looking for a punchline. When she realized I was entirely serious, the humor faded from her eyes.
"And you think I would ever work for your company again?" she asked, her voice dropping to a low, intense hum. "You think you can just show up here with a corporate title and wipe away three years of living in the dirt because your little empire imploded?"
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"No," I answered softly, stepping closer. "I don't expect you to forgive me. And I don't expect you to trust me. But I’m asking you to help save the people who actually built this industry—the small-scale woodworkers, the independent upholsterers, the honest workers your family and mine left behind."
Lucy turned away, walking over to the small, oil-stained window that looked out over the gray canal. She stood in silence for a long, agonizing minute, the only sound being the rhythmic dripping of the rain outside.
