replied. “He received a generous inheritance, and his husband has an excellent job in Orleans Province. He’s living the life he wants to live.”
“So you are the sole proprietor of this foundation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why are you really doing this?” Mr. Kell asked. “To try and save face after your omegin tried to kill a friend of my family?”
Dorian’s hands jerked. “You know the Lees?”
“Indirectly, yes. My sons are friends with Rebel Lee’s mate, and both Hyatt and Symon have been folded into their circle of friends and family.”
“You have my sincere apologies for any pain my family caused yours. I didn’t realize.”
Mr. Kell studied him a moment longer before his tense expression softened. “I believe you, and thank you. So what exactly is your proposal?”
Dorian snapped open his briefcase and pulled out four copies of his written proposal, handing out three and keeping one for himself. “It is my sincere desire to expand the reach of Light House Resource Center. I’ve been studying its history and also a few scientific studies written about the effectiveness in facilities like this on the mental health and well-being of both omega and beta victims of domestic violence.” He rattled off a handful of statistics that seemed to impress all three board members.
“I believe that by opening a second Light House, possibly in the revitalized River Row area,” Dorian continued, “we can continue to see a drop in instances of domestic violence, and a rise in overall mental health and well-being within our community.”
They read over the proposal silently, and Dorian crossed his fingers beneath the table, his stomach now a ball of squirming anxiety. His first foundation. His first proposal. He’d survive if they said no, but he truly did believe in this vision. He also knew one of the Lee siblings had benefited immensely from his time living here, and he wanted more people to have that chance to thrive.
“This is very thorough, Mr. Fowler,” Mr. Kell said. “Very few alphas would propose such a large-scale project without wanting some measure of control over how his money is spent. This proposal assures us that we three will have full financial control.”
“Yes, sir. You have created a model that works, and you did it from the ground up. I would never presume to interfere with how you think the money will be best allocated.”
“Your foundation is a finite resource, though, and we occasionally have trouble funding one facility, much less two.”
“The Fowler name might be mud right now in the public eye, but I still have my sire’s old business contacts. I can guarantee one fundraiser that nets you enough to run both facilities for at least two years.”
Mr. Kell’s eyebrows went up again. “You can guarantee that?”
“I can.” Ballsy, but Dorian wanted this more than he’d wanted anything in a long damned time. “I obviously understand that you three men need time to consider my proposal. It is a huge decision that stretches your resources, at least at first, which is why I am willing to sign a contract that includes language holding Fowler Foundation financially responsible for any financial shortfalls within the first three years of signing the agreement.”
Risky again, but Dorian was determined to sway the other three men in the room. To prove he was serious about this and not just trying to save his family’s name in the public eye.
“Anything we do here at Light House tends to make the news cycle,” Mr. Clark said. “If positive publicity is your endgame, you’ve got a good angle.”
“Positive publicity is a nice thought but not my final goal. My final goal is helping people. Fixing lives in the complete opposite way in which my sire ruined them. That’s honestly all else I can think to say other than thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
“We definitely need to discuss this as a committee,” Mr. Kell said. “I appreciate your candor, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve made a decision.”
“Of course.” Dorian put his own copy of the proposal back in the briefcase, even though he knew it by heart, then shook each man’s hand before leaving the conference room. Despite being curious about the facility—he’d seen blueprints but they only revealed so much—he did not abuse their trust by wandering.
He walked straight back to the lobby, and as he passed the desk an odd scent struck his nose. Something faintly sweet, like maraschino cherries, but no one was in the lobby with him except the guard. Odd.
And also