Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The Holloway Theatre stood silent in the pale dawn light. It was a hulking mass of brick and stone, wedged between a modern coffee shop and a laundromat like a grand old aristocrat who had stumbled into a bad neighbourhood. The 'Danger: Keep Out' signs had been replaced over the weekend with shiny new placards bearing the Stone Global logo: SITE UNDER RESTORATION. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Felicity stood at the chained gates, breathing in the air. It smelled of wet pavement, exhaust fumes, and—faintly—the musty, sweet scent of old timber.
"Okay, old girl," she whispered to the building, adjusting the strap of her heavy canvas messenger bag. "It's just you and me against the billionaire."
She was dressed for war, which in her profession meant steel-toed boots, cargo trousers paint-splattered from three different projects, and a thick knitted jumper that had seen better days. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy bun, secured with a pencil.
She unlocked the padlock with the key Marcus had grudgingly couriered to her flat on Sunday. The chain rattled and fell. She pushed the heavy iron gates open. They groaned, a rusty screech that echoed down the empty street.
Inside the courtyard, the debris was worse than she remembered. Piles of rotted wood, discarded seating, and trash from decades of neglect littered the ground. It was going to take a week just to clear the perimeter.
"Disgraceful."
The voice came from behind her, deep and disapproving.
Felicity jumped, spinning around.
Alistair Stone was standing on the pavement. But he didn't look like he was dressed for a construction site. He was wearing a navy suit that looked like it had been tailored by angels, a crisp white shirt, and—ridiculously—a pair of pristine, brand-new hard-capped designer boots that probably cost more than the scaffolding she needed to rent.
"Good morning to you too, Alistair," Felicity said, recovering her composure. "I see you dressed for... a board meeting at a quarry?"
Alistair stepped through the gates, his eyes scanning the piles of rubbish with undisguised disgust. "I dressed for leadership, Felicity. Something this site is sorely lacking."
He gestured behind him. A massive truck was backing up to the curb. It wasn't a dumpster truck. It was a flatbed carrying a sleek, modular portable office. It was black, glass-walled, and looked like a spaceship had landed in the middle of a junk heap.
"What is that?" Felicity asked, pointing at the monstrosity.
"That is my Command Centre," Alistair replied calmly. "It has satellite internet, climate control, and an espresso machine. I told you, I will be on site every day. I do not intend to work sitting on an overturned bucket."
"You can't put that there!" Felicity protested as the crane began to lift the pod. "That's the loading bay! I need that space for the skip bins and material delivery."
"Adapt," Alistair said simply, walking past her toward the main doors of the theatre. "If you can't work around a single portable office, I have severe doubts about your ability to restore a crumbling landmark."
Felicity grit her teeth. He was doing this on purpose. He was occupying territory.
"Fine," she muttered, grabbing her hard hat—a battered yellow one covered in stickers. "But if a cement mixer scratches your spaceship, don't come crying to me."
She followed him into the building.
The lobby was a cavern of shadows. The air was thick with dust that danced in the beams of light cutting through the boarded-up windows. It was freezing cold, colder than outside. The grand staircase swept up to the balcony, though the velvet railing was moth-eaten and the carpet was threadbare.
But Felicity didn't see the rot. She saw the bones. She saw the sweeping arch of the ceiling, the intricate plasterwork of acanthus leaves hiding in the gloom.
"Careful," she warned as Alistair stepped forward. "The floorboards near the entrance are soft. Step where the joists are."
Alistair paused, testing the wood with his expensive boot. It creaked ominously. "This place is a death trap. My safety inspector is going to have a field day. I could shut you down just on the basis of air quality alone."
"The ventilation units are arriving at noon," Felicity said quickly, pulling a high-powered torch from her bag. She clicked it on, the beam cutting through the darkness. "And we're reinforcing the floor first. Look."
She shone the light upward.
"There," she pointed. "See that frieze? That's what I was talking about. Underneath that grime is gold leaf and lapis lazuli. It depicts the Muses."
Alistair looked up. He squinted against the dust. "I see dirt, Felicity. And I see a water stain spreading from the north corner that suggests the roof is leaking."
"The roof is leaking," she admitted. "That's priority number one."
"No," Alistair said, turning his gaze back to her. In the harsh light of her torch, his face was sharp, angular, and unyielding. "Priority number one is budget assessment. I want a full itemized list of materials by end of day. If you spend one pound on 'gold leaf' before the roof is watertight, I will fire you. Clause or no clause."
"I know how to run a site, Alistair," she snapped, lowering the torch. "I'm not a child playing with a dollhouse."
"Then stop looking at it like one," he countered. He took a step closer to her. The space between them suddenly felt very small. "You look at this place with rose-tinted glasses. You see magic. I see liability. If we are going to work together, you need to take the glasses off."
He reached out. For a split second, Felicity thought he was going to touch her face. Her breath hitched in her throat.
Instead, he plucked a piece of falling plaster from her shoulder and flicked it away.
"Put your hard hat on," he ordered softly. "It's dangerous in here."
Felicity jammed her hat onto her head, her face flushing warm in the cold air. "I was just about to."
"Good. Now, show me this famous stage of yours. The one worth risking millions for."
They walked through the double doors into the auditorium.
It was breathtakingly sad. The vast space was silent, the rows of seats covered in grey dust sheets like ghosts waiting for a show that never started. The proscenium arch was massive, framing a stage that stretched deep into the shadows.
Felicity walked down the aisle, her boots thudding on the carpet. She climbed the small stairs onto the stage. The wood here was different—darker, smoother.
"Come up," she called out.
Alistair hesitated, then followed. He stood beside her on center stage, looking out at the empty, dark theatre.
"Jump," she said.
Alistair looked at her as if she had lost her mind. "I beg your pardon?"
"Jump. Just a little. Feel the floor."
"I am not jumping, Felicity. I am the CEO of a multinational corporation."
"You're a buzzkill is what you are," she rolled her eyes. "Fine. Watch."
Felicity bent her knees and hopped. As she landed, the floor didn't just thud; it gave. There was a subtle, almost imperceptible bounce—a absorption of impact that felt like landing on a cloud wrapped in timber.
"See?" she beamed, breathless. "The joists are interwoven in a basket-weave pattern with horsehair pads between the layers. It's alive. It responds to movement."
Alistair looked down at his feet. He shifted his weight. He didn't jump, but he pressed down hard with his heel. He felt it. The slight return of energy. It was a marvel of engineering, he had to admit. Hidden, complex, and functional.
He looked back at Felicity. She was glowing. In the gloom of the ruined theatre, with dust smudged on her cheek and a ridiculous yellow hard hat on her head, she looked... vibrant. She was the only living thing in this graveyard.
"It's... functional," Alistair conceded, which for him was high praise. "But the wood is warped on stage left. And the rigging system above us looks like a guillotine waiting to drop."
"We can fix the rigging," Felicity said, her optimism undimmed. "We can fix all of it."
Alistair checked his watch. "You have six months. The clock started at 8:00 AM. You've spent forty-five minutes admiring the floor."
He turned and walked toward the wings.
"Where are you going?" Felicity asked.
"To my office," Alistair called back. "I expect the roof assessment report on my desk in an hour. And Felicity?"
She turned. "What?"
Alistair stood in the doorway, framed by the crumbling architecture.
"Try not to get killed," he said. "It would be a paperwork nightmare."
He disappeared into the shadows.
Felicity stood alone on the stage. She let out a long breath she didn't know she was holding. She looked out at the empty seats, imagining them filled with people, imagining the lights warm and golden.
Then she looked at the spot where Alistair had stood.
"Paperwork nightmare," she scoffed, kicking a loose screw across the stage. But a small smile tugged at her lips.
He hadn't said no. He hadn't said impossible. He had just said fix it.
Felicity rolled up her sleeves. "Challenge accepted, Mr. Stone."
Outside, the sound of a generator roared to life as Alistair's luxury office powered up. The siege had begun.