And possibly significant renegotiation with public agencies, investors, contractors, and property owners.
The process could take months.
Perhaps longer.
Certain components might become uneconomic.
Others could remain viable.
The CEO listened.
Then asked another question.
"Would it protect the people the original project was supposed to serve?"
The adviser considered.
"That depends on the design."
She nodded.
"Then that's the design question we need to answer."
A senior executive frowned.
"You're suggesting we spend more time on a project that's already become a reputational disaster."
The CEO looked toward him.
"I'm suggesting we determine whether the underlying infrastructure need remains real."
He nodded slowly.
She continued.
"Flood protection doesn't become unnecessary because a developer mishandled its financing."
Another executive leaned forward.
"Neither does housing."
The CEO nodded.
"Exactly."
The room grew quieter.
She continued.
"We shouldn't rescue bad governance just because money has already been spent."
Then she added.
"But we shouldn't abandon worthwhile work merely because the original sponsor failed."
For several seconds, the committee members considered.
The general counsel spoke.
"We can examine alternatives while preserving our contractual rights."
The CEO nodded.
"Then do that."
She looked around the table.
"And be prepared to say no if the corrected project doesn't make sense."
The committee agreed.
The decision was not dramatic.
No champagne shattered.
No millionaire fell to his knees.
But it represented something far more consequential than the theatrical moment in the ballroom.
The CEO was separating accountability from revenge.
And giving a potentially valuable project a chance to survive without protecting the people who had mismanaged it.
The public hearing took place nearly four months after the gala.
It was not a courtroom trial.
It was a formal meeting organized to review the development's proposed changes, community impacts, and outstanding concerns.
Local officials attended.
Community representatives spoke.
Engineers presented updated information.
Property owners asked questions.
And several organizations submitted written statements.
The hearing room was crowded.
Residents filled the chairs.
Reporters sat near the back.
Representatives from the original development team occupied one side.
The CEO arrived with her advisers.
She wore a tailored dark-green business suit rather than an evening gown.
Her black hair was styled neatly.
She carried a slim tablet and a folder of documents.
Several reporters called out questions.
She did not answer in the hallway.
Instead, she entered the meeting room and sat beside the independent project review team.
For nearly three hours, she listened.
A civil engineer explained the flood-protection requirements.
A housing specialist discussed affordability targets.
A labor representative asked about construction employment standards.
A local business owner expressed concern about road access during redevelopment.
Then the community organizer approached the microphone.
She carried a thick folder.
The room became quiet.
She looked toward the officials.
Then toward the developers.
For a moment, she seemed emotional.
But when she spoke, her voice was firm.
"People keep talking about our neighborhood as though it's empty."