CHAPTER TWO - A SIMPLE REQUEST
1199 Words
Morning sunlight poured into the glass-walled conference room of DeLuca Holdings, painting long golden streaks across polished marble floors. The company’s headquarters rose tall in the heart of the city—fifty floors of precision, power, and pressure. From the boardrooms to the elevators, everything smelled like money and perfection.
At the very top, Adrian DeLuca sat behind a black mahogany desk that overlooked the skyline. His phone buzzed constantly with market updates, emails, and calls that never seemed to end. Somewhere between the numbers and board decisions, he often wondered if this was what his father had wanted—success without necessarily finding fulfillment.
“Sir?”
Clara Evans, his executive assistant, stepped into the room, carrying a neat stack of documents. She was efficient, always composed, and could read his mood before he spoke.
“These are the pending requests for corporate support under the DeLuca CSR initiative,” she said. “The selection committee filtered them, but you asked to personally review them before approval.”
Adrian leaned back. “Leave them on my desk. I’ll go through them after the board call.”
“Yes, sir.” She hesitated. “There’s one handwritten letter in the pile. Most are typed proposals—it struck me as odd.”
He raised a brow but said nothing, simply nodding for her to leave.
When the door closed, he loosened his tie and reached for the first folder. As expected—impeccably typed proposals from top-tier organizations claiming to “partner” with DeLuca Holdings for community development. Most were polished requests that would never reach a real cause.
Halfway through, a handwritten letter caught his eye. The brown envelope was slightly bent, edges soft from travel. Inside, neat but slightly uneven blue ink formed words on plain white paper:
> “Dear Mr. DeLuca,
We don’t need much—just new desks, books that won’t tear in the hands of children who still believe in tomorrow, and a roof that won’t leak when it rains.
Our school is small, but our dreams aren’t.
If your company could help, you wouldn’t just be fixing a building—you’d be strengthening futures.
— Ava Monroe, Greenwood Community School.”
Adrian read the letter twice.
There was something honest about it—no exaggerated claims, no flattery, no credentials or media strategies attached. Just someone asking for help with quiet dignity.
He turned the paper over, noting the contact info: Greenwood Community School, Eastbridge District. One of the city’s least developed areas—a place where DeLuca Holdings rarely set foot.
He sat in silence, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound. Then he pressed the intercom.
“Clara?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to clear my schedule tomorrow afternoon. Send me the address of Greenwood Community School. I’ll visit personally.”
There was a pause. “Sir, in person?”
“Yes. And don’t inform them ahead of time. I just want to see the place for myself.”
---
The next afternoon, the company’s black Bentley wound through the narrow roads of Eastbridge District. The area was a sharp contrast to the skyscrapers Adrian knew. Small stalls sold bread, fruit, and stationery. Children ran barefoot, chasing old tires. The air smelled of rain, earth, and life.
“Sir,” the driver said, slowing near a rusted gate with a faded sign: Greenwood Community School. “This must be the place.”
Adrian nodded, stepping out. He wore a simple navy shirt, sleeves rolled, no tie.
“Should I come with you?” the driver asked.
“No,” Adrian replied. “Wait here.”
The school gate creaked as he pushed it open. Inside, the compound was small but alive. Children sat on wooden benches under a mango tree, writing in exercise books balanced on their knees. Windows were broken in places, patched with cardboard. Yet laughter rang out—genuine, uninhibited.
He followed the sound to a classroom where a woman stood before a blackboard, teaching fractions with bottle caps and colored chalk pieces.
“Now, if I have two half oranges,” she said, smiling at her students, “what do I get when I put them together?”
“ONE!” the class shouted in unison.
“Exactly,” she laughed softly. “And that’s how teamwork works. Two halves make something whole.”
Adrian leaned by the doorway, quietly observing. She commanded attention without trying to impress anyone—just quietly, naturally, doing what she loved.
Class ended. The woman noticed him. “Can I help you?” she asked, cautious but polite.
“Yes. I’m Adrian DeLuca, from DeLuca Holdings. I came regarding your letter.”
Her brows lifted. “You came yourself? I didn’t expect—well, I didn’t think anyone would even read it.”
“I did,” he said simply.
Ava smiled, brushing chalk from her hands. “That’s already more than I hoped for. Would you like to see the rest of the school?”
He nodded.
They walked through narrow corridors where paint peeled and wires hung loosely. Some desks lacked legs, propped up on stacked stones. The library had one shelf, filled with mismatched textbooks donated over the years. Yet every corner showed care: books taped carefully, flowers planted in old paint cans.
In her small office, Ava hesitated. “We try to keep it together with what we have. Teachers sometimes use their own salaries to buy supplies.”
Adrian looked around—the old ceiling fan, cracked table, photographs of children. “Why do you stay?” he asked quietly.
“Because leaving would mean giving up on them. They’ve already had enough people give up.”
For the first time, Adrian had no business response, no corporate line—just quiet respect.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Monroe, we’ll provide what you need. Desks, roofing, books. Everything.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes. A team will come next week to start assessing what’s required.”
Ava blinked, processing. “Thank you. I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to,” he said faintly. “You’ve already said enough in your letter.”
Walking back to his car, schoolchildren waved from the windows. He raised a hand, smiling without realizing it.
That night, back in his penthouse, he opened the letter again. Not because he needed to, but because he wanted to remember how honesty looked when it wasn’t dressed in luxury.
- Writer
