Santa Monica Doesn’t Understand Love

Charlotte's POV

The city planning committee room smelled like stale ambition and older coffee—a place where bold ideas came to be quietly euthanized.

"Miss Morgan," Committee Chair Williams nodded as I entered. "I understand you have some concerns about the Phase Two development timeline?"

"No concerns," I said. "Revisions."

David Martinez, my chief development officer, nearly choked on his coffee. "Charlotte, we discussed this. The investors are expecting—"

"I know what the investors are expecting. But I also know what the community deserves."

"With all due respect, Miss Morgan," committee member Sarah Chen interjected, "this is a significant departure from your previous position. The economic impact reports show—"

"The economic impact reports show profit margins and tax revenues. They don't show Mrs. Rodriguez losing the apartment where she raised her grandchildren. They don't show Carlos losing the garage his father built with his bare hands."

David stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Charlotte, where is this coming from?"

I thought about Mateo's eyes, about the pain in his voice when he showed me those photos. But there was something else—a memory from walking those streets. A little boy on a fire escape with broken crayons, drawing flowers on a takeout menu. The way he'd looked up at me with such hope...

My father had looked at me that way once, when I painted him terrible watercolor sunsets. He used to hang them on his office wall. Until the spreadsheets covered them.

"The truth is," I said, "if we price out the people who made this neighborhood vibrant, we're not redeveloping—we're cannibalizing."

A pause. Then:

"And cannibalism isn't a growth strategy. It's liquidation disguised as innovation."

"What exactly are you suggesting?" Williams asked.

I opened the folder I'd worked on until dawn. "Adaptive reuse instead of demolition. Affordable housing that's affordable. Community spaces that serve the existing residents, not just the ones moving in."

"That would reduce the development's profitability by at least thirty percent," David said.

"Then we lose thirty percent—and save everything else."

"This is very noble, Miss Morgan," Chen said, "but there are legal obligations. Contracts with investors—"

"Which can be renegotiated." I pulled out another set of documents. "My legal team worked all night. We can restructure without breaking existing contracts."

Williams leaned forward. "Why are you willing to do this?"

"Because our current model is unsustainable. We're creating developments that price out the very communities that made these neighborhoods desirable. Long-term, that's bad business. Look at the Meridian project in Brooklyn—strong initial profits, but within five years they were dealing with lawsuits, protests, and a thirty percent vacancy rate."

The room went quiet. David leaned forward, suddenly interested.

"What changed your mind?" Williams asked.

"Market research," I lied smoothly. "Three nights of walking the neighborhood, understanding what we're building on. The current plan destroys the very assets that make this area valuable."

"One week," I said, standing. "Give me one week to present a revised development plan. If you don't like it, we proceed with the original timeline."

"And if we do?"

"Then we prove development doesn't have to mean destruction."

That evening, alone in my penthouse, I finally admitted the truth. It wasn't market research that changed my mind.

It was Mateo.

Respect isn't given—it's earned. And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to start earning it.

Three hours later, I stood outside Mateo's gallery, staring at the "CONDEMNED" notice pasted across the door.

"He's not here."

I turned to find a young woman in paint-splattered overalls watching me with suspicious eyes.

"You're the one who signed his death warrant," she said flatly.

"I'm the woman who wants to save it."

She studied my expensive suit. "Santa Monica Beach. There's a wall where he paints when he's angry." A pause. "He's really angry."

I found him two hours later, painting broad, angry strokes of red and black that seemed to bleed into each other. The mural was abstract but clear: a city being consumed by flames, with small figures fleeing in terror. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing paint-stained forearms marked with burn scars that looked deliberate, like art carved into flesh.

My heels sank into the sand with each step, completely impractical for a beach. He was barefoot, paint streaked up his calves like war paint.

"Subtle," I said, approaching slowly.

He didn't turn. "What do you want, Charlotte?"

"To apologize."

"For what? For the lie, or the part where you made me believe it wasn't one?"

The wind snapped between us like a reprimand. I swallowed.

"For all of it. But mostly—for not seeing you clearly."

He paused, brush frozen midair. The paint bled down the wall like a wound.

When he turned to face me, there was something new in his eyes—heat that had nothing to do with anger.

"Words are easy, Charlotte. Especially when they cost nothing."

"What if they did cost something?"

The ocean breeze sent my hair whipping around my face. I reached up to tuck it behind my ear, and caught him watching the movement with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.

Desire clawed at the edge of my composure, but I held the line. Wanting was easy. Acting—that was the real risk.

"They don't just bite, Charlotte. They enjoy it. And you—" His voice dropped, dangerous and low. "You used to smile when they did."

The accusation hit like a slap. Because it was true.

"Maybe I did," I said quietly. "But I'm not smiling now."

He stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The movement exposed the line of my throat, and I saw his gaze flick down before snapping back up, his jaw tightening slightly.

The silence stretched between us, loaded with recognition. Whatever was happening here was bigger than either of us had planned.

"My brother's name is carved into the floorboards of that gallery," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "You think I can watch it get bulldozed without a fight?"

The pain in his voice caught me off guard, but it was the vulnerability that undid me. This man who seemed so strong was just as capable of being broken as anyone else.

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"Had." He reached up, running a hand through his hair. "He died in Afghanistan. Three years ago. The gallery was his dream first."

The wind shifted between us like a held breath. I didn't move—but my fingers twitched, traitors to my restraint.

"Mateo—"

"You want to know something?" he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. He was close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could smell the salt air on his skin mixed with something that was purely him. "When I first saw you in my gallery, I didn't see the Charlotte Morgan who destroys neighborhoods for profit."

"What did you see?"

His eyes locked on mine, dark and intense. "I saw a woman who looked at art like she was starving for something real. Like she'd forgotten what it felt like to want something that wasn't bought and paid for."

The words hit me harder than any accusation could have. Because he was right. Standing here with him, salt air in my lungs and sand between my toes, I felt more alive than I had in years.

"Maybe I was," I whispered.

"Are you still?"

I looked at him—really looked. At the way the dying light played across his skin, at the intensity in his dark eyes, at the way he stood like he was ready to fight the world for what mattered to him.

"Yes," I breathed.

He stepped closer, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could see the droplets of salt water still clinging to his eyelashes. The space between us felt charged, electric, like the air before a storm.

"Have you ever," he said, his voice rough, "even once, come anywhere without wearing your armor?"

I looked down at my pristine suit, at the designer heels that were sinking into sand with each breath. "This isn't armor."

"Then what is it?"

"A uniform. For a war I'm tired of fighting."

His eyes searched my face, looking for cracks. "Then why are you still wearing it?"

"Charlotte," he said, and my name sounded different in his voice. Like a promise, like a question, like a warning all at once.

"Yeah?" My voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Don't do this for me. Do it because it's right. Because if you're doing it for me..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to my lips again before meeting my eyes. "I won't be anyone's beautiful mistake."

Something inside me snapped.

"I'm not here to save you," I said, my voice breaking. "I'm here because I'm drowning, and for the first time in my life, I met someone who didn't try to push me under."

The confession hung between us like a live wire.

His expression changed, softened and sharpened all at once. "Charlotte—"

But I was already moving, closing the distance between us, my hand reaching for his chest before I could stop myself. The moment my palm touched him, he caught my wrist.

"Don't," he said, but his grip was gentle, and he didn't let go.

"Don't what?"

"Don't touch me like you're trying to fix something broken. I'm not your redemption project."

"And I'm not yours." I met his eyes, my pulse hammering where his thumb rested against my wrist. "But maybe we're both tired of being what everyone else needs us to be."

For a heartbeat, the world went silent except for the waves.

Then he pulled me closer, and I forgot why I'd ever thought this was a mistake.

Something shifted in his expression then—not trust, not yet, but recognition. Understanding.

The sun had almost disappeared now, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and purples. The beach was empty except for us, the sound of waves our only soundtrack.

"Then let's see what you're really made of," he said softly.

I looked down at where a drop of seawater had fallen onto my hand, glistening like a promise I wasn't sure I was ready to keep.

Freedom tastes like salt and risk.

But the tide always comes back in. And tomorrow, I'd have to walk into a boardroom full of wolves and try to convince them that saving something real was worth more than another quarter of empty returns.

For him? For this? Maybe I was ready to find out.

Standing here on this beach, looking into Mateo's eyes, I realized that for the first time in years, I had no idea what I was going to do next.

And somehow, that felt like freedom.