The late afternoon sun slanted through the broken windows of the abandoned Westfield Hotel, casting long shadows across the once-grand lobby. Eliana Winters stepped carefully over the debris, her boots crunching on bits of plaster that had fallen from the ornate ceiling. Despite the decay, she felt a reverent hush in the space, as if the building itself was holding its breath, waiting.
She ran her fingers along the marble reception desk, feeling the cool stone beneath a layer of dust. The patina of age had settled over everything, but Eliana's trained eye could see beyond the neglect to the magnificence that once was—and could be again. This wasn't just another abandoned building; this was a piece of Riverton's soul.
"You're still standing," she whispered to the silent lobby. "After all these years."
Eliana pulled out her small leather-bound sketchbook and began to draw, capturing the sweeping staircase that curved up to the mezzanine. Her pencil moved with practiced precision, adding notes about the condition of the balustrades and the intricate plasterwork that adorned the ceiling. This was more than just professional interest. The Westfield had been part of her childhood, a place of wonder and magic when her mother would bring her for afternoon tea in what was once the finest hotel in Riverton.
A sound from above made her pause. Probably just the building settling, she told herself, though a small part of her wondered if it might be something else—someone else. The Westfield wasn't officially open for assessment yet. She was here on a tip from Thomas Reeves, a member of the Historical Preservation Board who had mentioned the hotel was finally being sold after sitting vacant for nearly twenty years.
"Just thought you might want a look before the developers get their hands on it," he'd said with a knowing smile. Thomas understood her passion for preservation, her belief that buildings like this deserved more than demolition to make way for glass and steel monstrosities.
Eliana moved deeper into the hotel, past the lobby toward what had once been the famous Sapphire Ballroom. The double doors were warped with age and moisture, but still bore their original brass handles shaped like laurel wreaths. She pushed them open, wincing at the groan of hinges that hadn't moved in decades.
The ballroom took her breath away. Despite the decay—the water stains on the ceiling, the warped parquet flooring, the tattered remnants of once-luxurious curtains—the space retained its grandeur. Massive crystal chandeliers hung precariously, missing many of their crystals but still impressive in scale. The afternoon light streamed through tall windows, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air like memories of long-ago waltzes.
Eliana stood in the center of the room, turning slowly to take it all in. This was where her parents had danced at their wedding reception. Where her mother, in the last year of her life, had brought sixteen-year-old Eliana to show her where "real magic happens—when people come together in beautiful spaces."
"I won't let them destroy you," she promised the empty room, her voice echoing slightly. "Whatever it takes."
She spent the next hour methodically documenting the ballroom, photographing architectural details and making notes about the condition of various elements. The more she saw, the more convinced she became that the Westfield could—and should—be restored rather than demolished. Yes, it would be expensive, but the cultural value was immeasurable.
As the light began to fade, Eliana reluctantly prepared to leave. She had gathered enough preliminary information to make a case to the Historical Society, perhaps even enough to begin the process of seeking landmark status for the building, which would protect it from significant alteration.
She was making her way back through the lobby when her phone rang, the sound jarring in the quiet space. It was Margo, her business partner and best friend.
"Please tell me you're not still in that death trap of a hotel," Margo said without preamble.
Eliana smiled. "It's not a death trap. The structure is surprisingly sound."
"That's what they all say right before the floor collapses beneath them. But listen, I'm calling because I just heard something you need to know."
There was an urgency in Margo's voice that made Eliana pause. "What is it?"
"The Westfield was just purchased by Reeves Development."
Eliana felt her stomach drop. "Julian Reeves?"
"The very same. Word is they're planning to gut it and convert it to luxury condos with retail on the ground floor. Standard gentrification playbook."
The news hit Eliana like a physical blow. Reeves Development had a reputation for acquiring historical properties and transforming them beyond recognition, preserving perhaps a facade or a token architectural element while destroying everything that gave the buildings their character and history.
"That's not going to happen," Eliana said, her voice hardening with resolve. "Not to the Westfield."
"I thought you'd say that," Margo replied, and Eliana could hear the smile in her friend's voice. "That's why I've already requested the preliminary plans from the city planning office. And I may have scheduled us to speak at next week's planning commission meeting."
"You're the best, you know that?"
"I do know that. Now get out of that building before you fall through a rotten floor or get arrested for trespassing."
After ending the call, Eliana took one last look around the lobby. The fading light cast long shadows, giving the space an almost ethereal quality. She felt a fierce protectiveness surge through her. This wasn't just about preserving architecture; it was about honoring memories, connections, history itself.
Julian Reeves might have money and influence, but Eliana had passion and expertise—and a personal connection to this building that would fuel her fight. She had faced developers before and won. This would be no different.
As she stepped outside into the cool evening air, Eliana didn't notice the sleek black car parked across the street, or the man watching her from behind tinted windows—a man with plans of his own for the Westfield Hotel.
---
Julian Reeves watched the woman emerge from the Westfield, noting her confident stride and the careful way she secured the entrance behind her. So this was Eliana Winters, the restoration architect whose name kept coming up whenever his company acquired properties in Riverton's historical districts. She had a reputation for being brilliant, uncompromising, and a perpetual thorn in the side of developers like him.
"Is that her?" asked Diego Morales from the driver's seat.
Julian nodded. "That's her. Apparently, she's already been tipped off about our purchase."
"Not surprising. This town runs on gossip." Diego glanced at his friend. "She's going to be a problem, isn't she?"
"Most likely." Julian watched as Eliana walked to her car, a vintage Volvo wagon that had seen better days. The vehicle suited her somehow—practical, unpretentious, built to last. "But every problem has a solution."
What Julian didn't say was that he was counting on Eliana Winters being a problem. Her opposition would provide the perfect cover for what he really planned to do with the Westfield—something that would shock everyone who thought they knew Julian Reeves and what he stood for.
As Eliana's car pulled away, Julian took out his phone and made a note to have his assistant send her the official notice of the property acquisition, along with an invitation to the stakeholder meeting next week. Let her think she was being consulted. It would make the next phase of his plan that much easier.
"Ready to go?" Diego asked.
Julian took one last look at the Westfield Hotel, its imposing silhouette dark against the twilight sky. Unlike Eliana Winters, he had no emotional attachment to the building. Or at least, that's what he told himself as he pushed away the memory of his grandfather's stories about the hotel's golden age, when he had worked his way up from bellhop to manager over the course of forty years.
"Yes," Julian said, turning away from the window. "We're done here for now."
But as Diego drove them back toward downtown, Julian found himself thinking about the determined expression on Eliana Winters' face as she'd exited the building. She clearly cared deeply about the Westfield. That kind of passion was rare—and dangerous to his carefully laid plans.
This was going to be interesting.