The East End Community Center on Wednesday afternoon was a hive of frantic, hopeful activity. The usual muted chaos of after-school programs and senior bingo was overlaid with the smell of industrial cleaner and the sound of determined scrubbing.
Alex wiped sweat from his brow, pushing a heavy cart stacked with boxes of old sports equipment towards a dimly lit storage closet. His muscles, already complaining from the morning demolition work, screamed in protest. Across the worn linoleum of the main hall, Marco was wrestling a rickety ping-pong table into a corner, covering it with a surprisingly clean sheet provided by the PR team that had descended earlier.
"Remind me again why we volunteered for this?" Alex grunted, maneuvering the cart through a narrow doorway.
"Because your sister promised us cookies baked by the seniors' group," Marco called back, grunting as he lifted one end of the table. "And because Ms. Flores looked like she was gonna cry if no one helped." He flashed Alex a quick grin. "Also, maybe karma points? Counteracting the Thorne bad juju?"
Alex managed a weak smile. The "Thorne bad juju" felt like a physical weight lately. He hadn't mentioned the company Sofia couldn't name was *Thorne Enterprises*. He hadn't connected the dots until Ms. Flores, flustered and holding a clipboard, had mentioned the "Thorne Foundation's generous surprise donation" earlier. A cold dread had settled in his stomach. It couldn't be *him*, could it? Surely the billionaire prince wouldn't dirty his shoes in a place like this? He'd send a flunky. A check in the mail. Anything but actually *being* here.
"Alright, folks, listen up!" Ms. Flores clapped her hands, her voice echoing in the suddenly quieter hall. She was a warm, round woman in her fifties, usually dressed in colorful knit sweaters, now looking slightly overwhelmed in a clean but dated dress. "The Thorne representatives will be here tomorrow at 3 PM sharp. Mr. Thorne himself is coming!"
A murmur rippled through the small group of volunteers – mostly center regulars and parents like Alex. *Himself.* Alex felt the blood drain from his face. Marco, who had just straightened up from covering the ping-pong table, shot Alex a sharp, questioning look.
"Mr. Thorne is a very busy man," Ms. Flores continued, oblivious to Alex's internal crisis. "His team has outlined the plan. He'll arrive, be greeted briefly at the entrance, tour the main hall, the refurbished computer room – thank you again, Carlos, for getting those donated laptops working! – and then we'll have a short presentation in the meeting room where he'll formally present the donation. Then he leaves. Simple, dignified, positive!" She beamed, her optimism shining through her nervousness. "Remember, everyone: big smiles! This donation could mean *so* much – new plumbing, maybe even fixing the roof!"
She handed out instructions: where to stand, where *not* to stand ("Please keep the children's area clear unless directly invited"), what to say if spoken to ("Thank you, Mr. Thorne! The center appreciates your generosity!"). It felt like preparing for the arrival of a foreign dignitary, not a donor.
"Thorne?" Marco muttered, sidling up to Alex as Ms. Flores moved on. "As in *your* Thorne? The champagne tsunami guy?"
Alex nodded numbly. "Yeah. Ethan Thorne. Owner's son. Billionaire bastard."
Marco's expression hardened. "He's coming *here*? To slum it for five minutes for a photo op? After what he did to you?" His voice was low, fierce. "The nerve."
"What choice do we have, Marco?" Alex whispered back, gesturing at Ms. Flores's hopeful face, at Sofia helping an elderly woman arrange folding chairs neatly. "The center needs this money. Badly. Look at this place." He pointed at the water stain on the ceiling, the cracked linoleum, the ancient, wheezing radiator. "If him showing up for ten minutes means they get the roof fixed... we suck it up."
Marco scowled, his jaw working. "I still don't like it. Guy's poison. What if he recognizes you?"
Alex shrugged, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "He saw me for five minutes, covered in sweat and panic. I doubt he remembers my face. And I'll be..." he consulted the paper Ms. Flores had given him, "...'strategically positioned near the back during the tour, available to answer logistical questions if needed.' Basically, wallpaper. I'll keep my head down, say nothing, and pray he's in and out before he notices the chipped paint."
Marco stared at him, his dark eyes intense. "If he says one word to you, Al. One condescending word... I don't care who he is."
"Marco, don't," Alex said quickly, placing a hand on his friend's arm, feeling the coiled tension in the muscle. "Please. Don't cause trouble. For the center. For Sofia." He met Marco's gaze, pleading. "Just... be wallpaper with me tomorrow. Okay?"
Marco held his gaze for a long moment, the protectiveness warring with his desire not to upset Alex. Finally, he let out a slow breath, the fight draining slightly. "Fine," he grumbled. "Wallpaper. But I'm sticking close. Like really, really close wallpaper."
Alex managed a small, grateful smile. "Thanks." He squeezed Marco's arm before letting go, the contact sending an unexpected, confusing jolt through him. He quickly busied himself with the cart again. One more day. He just had to survive one more encounter with Ethan Thorne, invisible and silent. Then the arrogant billionaire could vanish back into his gilded world forever, leaving Alex to rebuild his life, one dusty box and aching muscle at a time.
**(End of Chapter 6)**