When it’s over, my father stands up and the entire room seems to shift its attention to him. Charles Nicholas commands attention wherever he goes, a skill honed by decades of closing million-dollar deals and intimidating anyone who dares challenge his authority.
“I have to say, son, this is quite an impressive… hobby you’ve developed here.” He strides toward me, waving to his acquaintances. “Very academic.”
The word drips with disdain, and I feel my dreams crumbling around me.
“But I think what our investors here are interested in,” my father continues, clapping me on the back hard enough to make me stumble slightly, “is a real business opportunity. Scalable ventures with proven market demand.”
“This is a proven concept,” I say, trying to maintain my professional composure while my father effectively dismantles everything I’ve worked for. I can already feel the crowd drifting toward the deodorant people. “The environmental benefits alone?—”
“Oh, the environment.” My father waves a dismissive hand. “Of course, of course. Very important for the young generation to feel good about their purchases. But at the end of the day, Nicholas Industries understands that business is about profit margins, not saving the world.”
The room has gone completely silent. I can feel dozens of eyes watching this public humiliation, and I’m powerless to stop it without creating an even bigger scene.
“As a matter of fact,” my father continues, his voice carrying to every corner of the atrium, “Reed will be joining the family enterprise in the new year. We’re launching a sustainable development division, and this little tree experiment will make an excellent pilot project. Under proper supervision, of course.”
My mouth goes dry. “Dad, that’s not?—”
“I know you’ll all want to discuss the investment opportunities this presents,” he bulldozes over my protest. “Ah, and who is this?”
He gestures to my side, where Eliza stands holding my tablet, her nose wrinkled in disdain she doesn’t bother to hide.
“Eliza Storm,” she says, her voice thick with scorn. “I need to borrow Reed for a minute?—”
“You must be his assistant.” My father plows forward like a combine harvester, slicing away my dignity along with my plans. “Been helping our Reed with his little project, dear?”
Every head nearby turns to look at Eliza, and I watch her face transform. The calm confidence disappears entirely, replaced by something cold and distant. Her eyes meet mine, and I sense her waiting for me to lead what happens next.
I should correct him. Should announce that Eliza is a business owner in her own right. My friend, not my employee. I should tell this room full of potential investors she’s the reason these trees survived long enough to be presented at all.
But my father’s hand is still on my shoulder, his presence overwhelming, and the words stick in my throat like they always do when he’s asserting his authority.
“Thank you all for coming to hear my boy,” my father says to his rich friends, as if this were his event to conclude. “We’ll be in touch with detailed prospectuses for those interested in serious investment.”
The crowd disperses, heading in earnest toward the bespoke clothing guys. Several people approach my father, shaking his hand and discussing indoor tennis at the club.
I stand frozen, watching Eliza gather her coat from the back of her chair. She moves with deliberate calm, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she’s avoiding looking in my direction.
“Eliza,” I call out, stepping toward her.
She pauses at the door, turning to face me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Professional. Distant. Like we’re strangers who happened to work on a project together.
“Good luck with your new position at Nicholas Industries,” she says, her voice perfectly polite and completely empty of warmth. “I’m sure your father knows what’s best.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me standing among my perfect trees, surrounded by my father’s business associates discussing market penetration, wondering how everything I worked for just turned into everything I was trying to escape.
11
Eliza
I wake up angry, which isn’t unusual, but this time I can’t pinpoint exactly why. Something about last night sits in my stomach like bad cheese, and I keep replaying Reed’s presentation while I feed the goats their morning hay.
He was brilliant. Confident, passionate, an extension of the friendly guy who knew half the vendors at the holiday market. Then his father showed up like some smarmy hornet and just… demolished him.
I chuck hay with more force than necessary, making Persephone bleat in protest. “Sorry, girl,” I mutter, but I’m not really apologizing to the goat.
I’m pissed that Reed stood there and let his father steamroll him. I’m pissed that he didn’t correct the “assistant” thing. But I’m really pissed that I care this much about what some uptight tree scientist does or doesn’t say to his daddy.
By 9:00 am, I’m knee-deep in mucking when I hear a truck rumbling up my driveway. I nearly faint with relief at the sight of Martinez, the farrier, showing up for the hoof inspection.
