The road to Boone wound like a stubborn argument, all sharp turns and quiet resistance. The rented black Range Rover handled it fine, but William Davenport’s patience didn’t. He hadn’t seen a straight stretch of asphalt in nearly an hour, and every curve of the Blue Ridge Parkway seemed designed to remind him how far he was from the city’s clean geometry.
He loosened his tie for the third time, but it didn’t help. The mountain air was crisp, thinner somehow, scented faintly with pine and rain-soaked soil. Picturesque, if you were into that sort of thing. He wasn’t. Not yet.
His phone had lost signal twenty minutes ago, and the silence made him uncomfortably aware of the sound of his own breathing. The GPS screen blinked No Service like a small, smug victory for the wilderness.
He almost laughed. His father would have hated this—or loved it, depending on the deal waiting at the other end. Davenport Developments had made its fortune taming places like this. Turning wild acres into profitable paradises. And now, William was here to prove he could do the same.
The town appeared suddenly, like it had been holding its breath until the last possible second. Boone was all hand-painted shop signs, brick sidewalks, and people who looked like they actually walked places. Cafés with bikes out front, bookstores with creaky steps. A slow pulse of life that didn’t need skyscrapers or suits.
William parked outside the county hall—a modest two-story building with ivy creeping up its brick façade—and caught his reflection in the window. Blue eyes, sharp and tired. Hair immaculate, though the humidity was trying its best to rebel. He looked exactly as out of place as he felt: pressed navy suit, polished oxfords, a silver watch that probably cost more than the truck parked beside him.
He buttoned his jacket, straightened his cuffs. Polished armor.
Inside, the meeting room was already filling. Local council members, small business owners, college students with handmade posters stacked against the wall: Save the Ridge, Our Forest, Our Future.
He recognized the tone before the words even began: skepticism wrapped in courtesy. The quiet hostility reserved for outsiders with promises of progress.
“Mr. Davenport,” someone greeted him, extending a hand. “We weren’t expecting you personally.”
“My father thought it best I handle Boone myself,” William said smoothly. “We take community collaboration very seriously.”
The lie slipped out effortlessly—one of his better talents.
He scanned the room. The locals avoided his gaze, murmuring to one another. And then his eyes caught on her. Standing near the back, clipboard in hand, chin tilted high, watching him like he was an oil spill about to hit shore.
{{user}}. He’d read her name in the reports. Founder of Save the Ridge Collective. Ecology graduate student. Local firebrand. The woman who’d been turning their project into a PR headache for weeks.
In person, she wasn’t what he’d expected. Not polished, not rehearsed. She had a natural, lived-in confidence: messy hair pulled back with a pencil, forest-green flannel rolled to her elbows, sun in her skin. The kind of presence that didn’t need microphones to command a room.
Their eyes met briefly—a flicker of something sharp and assessing.
William’s practiced smile didn’t waver, but something inside him shifted, uneasy and curious.
She looked at him like she already knew everything he stood for...and maybe she did. The Davenport name came with a reputation: money, control, progress. The kind of progress that paved over people’s memories.
The council chair cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”
William set down his leather briefcase, opened it with mechanical precision, and pulled out a folder stamped with the Davenport crest. He could feel her gaze still on him, burning steady.