Chapter 1

Eva

I stand in the corridor of what used to be my office, scanning the empty shelves as my stomach twists. An hour ago, these walls bustled with women sorting through job applications and parole checklists—my staff ensuring no one fell through the cracks. Now all the desks have vanished, replaced by echoes of footsteps trailing out the door. I still catch a faint hint of the peppermint oil I like to diffuse, but there’s a hollow chill in the air that no essential oil can mask.

I flip open my phone, scanning the news feed for any update on the state budget cuts. My reflection glints off the dark screen—deep umber skin that used to glow with hope and pride, now pulled tight with anger. My reflection’s eyes bore into me, and I notice how resolute they look, even when everything else feels uncertain.

My best friend and PR wizard, Zora Bellamy, appears in the doorway, a swirl of bright color against the drab emptiness. She’s wearing a vibrant orange blazer with gold accents, her dark curls framing a face that’s clearly braced for impact. “They’re out there,” she says, voice hushed yet brimming with concern.

“They?” I ask, though I already know.

“Reporters. They want your reaction.” Zora’s words slice through the silence.

My phone dings. I glance down to see a flurry of alerts: social media mentions, messages from donors, texts from friends. The headline on one local station’s tweet: Rise Up Crumbles After Governor Wright’s Budget Slashes Funding.

I exhale slowly and straighten my posture, fighting the urge to hurl my phone at the nearest wall. “Are they live?”

“Some are streaming, yes. They’re waiting for a statement from you, especially after the way you called him out.” Zora’s eyes flick to the news feed on my phone. The broadcast transitions to footage from earlier today, capturing me outside the state capitol, voice steady but laced with anger:

“Governor Mason Wright is a polished monster in a suit. He cut programs that save lives—women’s lives—and I will not be silent.”

I should be afraid of going toe-to-toe with a man who wields this much power, but all I feel is a scorching sense of purpose. Rise Up isn’t just a job. It’s my second chance, my life’s work. I built it to help formerly incarcerated women find stable ground—housing, jobs, therapy. And with one stroke of his pen, Mason Wright left us in the dust.

I brush past Zora, heading toward the exit, every footstep echoing like a drumbeat of my fury. A flash of cameras greets me, and I’m momentarily blinded by bright white lights. The crisp autumn air grazes my cheeks as I square my shoulders in front of the hungry press.

A reporter with a microphone leaps forward. “Ms. Duran, can you confirm that Rise Up has completely lost its funding?”

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my voice level. “We lost every penny of our state grant last night due to Governor Wright’s budget decisions. Our doors are closing.”

A second reporter thrusts a recorder closer. “You accused the governor of being, quote, ‘a polished monster in a suit.’ Any further comment?”

I hear the cameras shutter around me, capturing my every twitch. I can practically feel Zora’s presence at my side, quietly urging me to stay measured. But my veins run hot, and I picture the women who depended on us—women who are now left without resources. I let the words form carefully in my mind before I speak.

“Any man who claims to champion justice while pulling the rug out from under the most vulnerable is no champion at all,” I say, my voice low and cutting. “He cares more about political theater than real lives.”

A heavy silence falls, broken only by the scribble of pens. I see a flicker of camera lights capturing my face. I wonder if the fury in my eyes reads as defiance or heartbreak. Either way, I won’t soften my stance for the sake of optics. I pivot on my heel and walk back inside, ignoring the further shouted questions.

Once I’m in the safety of my near-empty office, Zora places her hand on my shoulder. “You sure you want to go nuclear with him?” she whispers.

“He already dropped the bomb,” I say, scanning the blank walls, the worn floor where countless women took their first steady steps post-incarceration. “I’m just naming the fallout.”

Zora’s hand squeezes gently. “It’s bad,” she murmurs. “His poll numbers took a dip after that midnight budget pass. He’s not exactly a saint in the public eye right now. You’re still the voice people are listening to. Even the national outlets are picking this up.”

My throat tightens. I can’t help but ask myself whether I should measure my tone more. But then I remember the woman who told me last week she was one paycheck away from sleeping on a park bench. She had tears in her eyes and a newly minted job certificate in her hand. Without the Rise Up transitional living funds, she has nowhere to go. The frustration burns in my gut.

“Let them talk,” I say, swallowing hard. “Our people need a champion, not a well-mannered pawn. And I refuse to be polite in the face of cruelty.”

Zora’s phone dings, and she glances at the screen. “Word on the street is the governor’s team is scrambling to do damage control. They’re calling you ‘emotional’ but also—” she lifts a brow “—‘dangerous in her passion.’”

I bark out a short laugh. “Dangerous. Me. Right.”

My reflection catches in the vacant glass door: tall, 5’8” in scuffed ankle boots, wearing a fitted blazer that’s seen better days. My natural hair, parted into neat cornrows leading into a twisted bun, reveals the delicate gold ring on my thumb—my mother’s. She taught me to fight for people who don’t have a voice. Today, I feel her spirit like a lit match against my spine, urging me forward.

A beep signals a text. It’s from Lola, one of our program graduates. Eva, where do I go for my check-in? They locked the doors. My anger flares again as I read. This is exactly what I feared—women left in limbo, no resources, no guidance.

“I’m going to my car,” I tell Zora. “I need to talk to Lola. And then I’m heading to the councilman’s office to see if we can salvage anything at the local level.”

“Good plan,” she says, tapping furiously on her phone’s screen, probably coordinating our next move.

I hurry downstairs, the building’s fluorescent lights flickering in a final farewell to my dream. Outside, my rusted SUV sits crookedly between the lines, the only vehicle left in the lot. I hop in and dial Lola. She picks up, breath hitching with worry.

“Eva,” she breathes. “They said the landlord changed the locks. My meeting for job training—”

“Hey, hey, calm down,” I murmur, pressing my palm to my forehead. “I’ll get this fixed. Until then, I’ll personally meet you tomorrow. Text me your schedule, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers. “And Eva?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t let that man get away with this.”

She hangs up before I can respond. I grip the steering wheel, silent vows churning in my mind.

That evening, I collapse onto my worn couch in my cramped row house, half-listening to the local evening news. The anchor’s voice drifts over me. “The governor has not yet released an official statement regarding the nonprofit closures. We do know the budget reallocation is part of his plan to boost infrastructure, but critics argue—”

I hold the remote, ready to mute the broadcast. But then an image of Mason Wright flashes on the screen, and I freeze. I recognize him from political rallies—tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes a piercing shade of blue that looks almost metallic on camera. His ash-blond hair is perfectly styled, and there’s a firm set to his jaw that suggests he doesn’t cower in the face of confrontation.

The reporter’s voice continues: “Governor Wright’s sudden cuts to social programs are stirring controversy, particularly among activists who claim this will severely harm low-income communities.”

I watch him speak at a podium. His voice is smooth, almost hypnotic, as if he were born to lead. “My administration is committed to doing what’s best for Maryland,” he says. “We are shifting resources to address the critical sectors of our economy.”

The screen jumps to footage of me, shoulders braced and voice unwavering: “He cut programs that save lives—women’s lives—and I will not be silent.”

I stare at my own expression on television, simultaneously proud and furious. My words hang in the air like a war drum. A swirl of texts lights my phone again—former donors, staff, some old classmates from Howard University, all wanting to know what I plan to do next. As if I have an arsenal of solutions.

An interview clip of the governor returns to the screen. “I am open to dialogue with all community leaders,” he asserts, wearing that maddening half-smile. “We must find common ground.”

Common ground? The only thing we share is the planet, and even that feels debatable right now.

I power off the TV and rest my head against the couch cushion. Exhaustion tugs at me, but my mind whirls with strategy. Mason Wright talks about common ground while I watch the women I’ve pledged my life to help lose their last safety net. Yet, the media falls over itself to paint him as a misunderstood reformer.

I catch my reflection in the dark television screen—my eyes narrow, lips thinned. He may be a political force, but he’s underestimated me. He has no idea how far I’m willing to go to fix this.

Early the next morning, I find myself crammed behind a borrowed folding table in a cramped corner of a community center, laptops and file boxes stacked around me. This is the temporary space Zora managed to wrangle on short notice. It’s not much, but at least it’s a roof.

My phone rings for the third time before 8 a.m. I see a private number. Normally, I’d ignore it, but desperation leads me to swipe and answer.

“Ms. Duran?” a crisp male voice intones. The tone makes my spine straighten automatically. “This is Silas Kane, Chief of Staff for Governor Wright.”

I clench my jaw, heart racing. “You’ve got some nerve calling me.”

“I’m reaching out on behalf of the governor,” he says, words carefully measured. “We’re aware you were forced out of your office space due to the budget shift. The governor—”

I almost laugh. “Budget shift? That’s a polite way of saying I was robbed blind.”

Silas doesn’t rise to the bait. “He would like to meet with you. Discuss potential...options.”

My pulse thrums. For a moment, I can’t speak. Is this a trap? A chance to negotiate? Maybe I can at least get partial funding reinstated. I picture the battered folder of eviction notices on my makeshift desk, the stack of urgent messages from the women in my program.

“I’ll consider it,” I say at last, forcing my voice not to quiver. “Send details.”

I hang up, swallowing hard. My heart pounds against my ribcage, fueled by indignation and a tiny flicker of possibility. A meeting with the man responsible for the abrupt loss of everything we built. A chance to confront him face-to-face.

Zora stands across from me, arms folded. She must have overheard my side of the call. “Tell me you’re not actually going to talk to that man.”

My eyes wander toward the battered file boxes labeled with the names of women we still need to place in stable housing. “I’ll do what I have to,” I say. “If it gets them even one step closer to real security, I’ll stand in the same room as Mason Wright.”

Her eyes glimmer with warning. “He’s a snake. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” I say, voice tight. “But sometimes to take down a snake, you need to step into the grass where it coils.”

Zora snorts softly. “Just don’t let him charm you into stepping onto his turf for free.”

“Not a chance,” I say, but my pulse thrums with apprehension.

Later that day, I scroll through headlines on my phone, searching for any sign of the governor’s next move. I see something that makes my blood simmer: a photo of Mason Wright in a tailored suit, stepping out of a black SUV. The caption reads: “Governor Wright addresses criticisms, remains confident in his approach.”

He certainly looks confident, jaw clenched like a statue and eyes scanning the crowd as if he owns this city. I notice a faint scar across his knuckles when he grips the car door—an unexpected imperfection in an otherwise polished presentation. Something about that single scar tugs at my curiosity, but I push the thought away.

No. I can’t afford to wonder about his scars. That’s how they distract you—show a tiny hint of vulnerability, make you forget the damage they’ve done.

I shut off the screen and set my phone aside, heading into the bustling main hall of the community center. A group of ex-offenders gather around a volunteer who’s giving a talk on resume-building. Normally, Rise Up would handle such training at our official office, but now everything is in limbo. My heart constricts as I watch them scribble notes, eyes filled with fragile hope.

I approach, and a young woman named Imani turns toward me. She fidgets, clutching a printed job listing. “Ms. Duran, is it true? We can’t go back to the old building anymore?”

My chest feels heavier at her question, but I nod gently. “We’ll operate from here for now. I’m meeting with some folks who might help.”

She gazes at me with something akin to desperation. “I worked so hard to stay on track. Please don’t let them shut this down completely.”

I rest a hand on her shoulder, fighting the lump in my throat. “I promise you, I will do everything I can.”

As she turns away, I sense Zora behind me. Her gaze lands on my trembling fingers. “You really want to meet with him, don’t you?” she says softly.

“We can’t wait for scraps anymore,” I whisper, folding my arms across my chest. “He set this crisis in motion. Maybe he can be pressured to reverse some of the damage.”

Zora lifts her chin. “Then let’s do it. But remember, you hold the moral high ground. Don’t let him spin it.”

I think of that old proverb about wrestling with pigs—how everyone ends up dirty. Still, I see the faces of the women counting on me, sense the weight of my mother’s gold ring on my thumb. I can’t walk away from a chance—even if it’s risky.

With a tight exhale, I open my email. There’s a message from Silas: a meeting request for tomorrow evening at the Governor’s Mansion.

I feel my heartbeat pulse in my temples. The Mansion is a fortress of power, a place where men like Mason Wright control the narrative. But I won’t let him dictate how this story ends.

By nightfall, I’ve tidied my temporary desk and stepped into the corridor of the community center, phone in hand. The hallway’s fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting dancing shadows against the walls. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass double doors at the end: I look determined, maybe even fierce.

I bring up a news site, half-expecting to see more photos of Mason. Instead, I find a snippet about me: Activist Eva Duran doubles down, calls Governor’s policies ‘heartless.’

My lips twist into a grim smile. Heartless. It’s a word that fits so well with the man who slashed my organization’s lifeline. Tomorrow, I’ll walk into his domain, unafraid to speak my mind.

Even if I have to stand in front of cameras again. Even if I have to lock eyes with a man whose entire existence represents the power structures I’ve been fighting since I was in juvie.

I think of the moment the two of us will face each other—his icy-blue gaze meeting my glare. Will I see even a shred of remorse? Or will I find only a cunning strategist hungry to reclaim his public image? I brace myself, inhaling through my nose, calming the quiver in my gut.

Then I grab my tote, head toward my car, and whisper a vow only the night can hear:

“Governor Wright, you won’t break me.”

The wind rustles the edges of my blazer, and in my mind, I picture tomorrow’s confrontation. He might be a master of composure, but so am I. And I’m not leaving that mansion without a fight.

I unlock my car and slide inside. The engine rumbles to life. My phone vibrates as Zora’s message lights my screen: Stay sharp. We’ve got your back.

I type a quick response: I’ve got me. He doesn’t know who he’s messing with.

And as I pull out of the parking lot, a single thought crystallizes in my mind: if he wants a spectacle, I’ll give him one—because I’ve been underestimated my whole life, and I won’t let him trample my community without consequences.

Tomorrow, I face the polished monster in his lair. Let him see how it feels when the women he tried to sideline find their voices—and use them to bring down his shiny tower of power.