My tablet buzzes with an email notification, probably another rejection or my landlord asking about next month’s rent. I’m tempted to ignore it, but procrastination won’t pay my bills.
The sender’s domain name makes me blink twice: North Shore Capital.
I squint at the screen, my insides fluttering with hope I thought was squashed.
Mr. Nicholas,
I apologize for the delayed invitation to your presentation at Bramblewood Manor. I was traveling and have only recently had the opportunity to review the materials you provided.
Your hydroponic forestry concept is intriguing, and I’d like to discuss potential investment opportunities. I’ll be attending the Yule Gala at Bramblewood this Friday and would appreciate the chance to speak with you about your projections in more detail.
* * *
Jennifer Martinez, senior partner at an investment group, has asked me for forecasts and sales models. With no mention of my father, his company, or anything related to Nicholas Industries. She’s… interested in my work.
I read the email three times before it sinks in. An investor. An actual investor who wants to see projections and marketing strategies and scaling scenarios.
Holy shit.
I plunge into full panic mode, my mind racing through everything I need to prepare. Financial forecasts, marketing plans, production timelines—none of which I have in the format a serious investor would expect. I grab my laptop and pull up spreadsheets, my fingers flying over the keyboard.
Five hundred units. A thousand. Twenty-five hundred. The numbers swim in front of my eyes as I try to calculate everything from raw materials to shipping costs to labor requirements. This is exactly the kind of detailed analysis I should have prepared weeks ago, but I was too focused on a sales pitch for my science to think about the business side.
My phone buzzes. Then again. I glance at it briefly—Eliza’s name on the screen—but I’m deep in a calculation about nutrient solution costs and can’t break concentration. I’ll call her once I get this under control.
The forecasting takes hours. By the time I look up, it’s completely dark outside, and my phone is showing multiple missed calls and texts. My mother called twice, probably to lecture me about missing the ballet and avoiding my father’s job offer. But most of the missed notifications are from Eliza.
I scroll through her texts:
Hey, how’s the ankle?
Call me when you get this
Really need to talk to you
Reed? Everything okay?
I guess you’re busy. Call me tonight if you can
* * *
The last message was sent three hours ago. I should call her back, but I’m in the zone now, bar charts and pivot tables sprouting like weeds. I’m finally making real progress on the business materials, and I can’t afford to lose momentum.
My phone rings again—my mother’s number this time. I answer on speaker, barely paying attention.
“Reed, darling, where have you been?” Her voice carries that particular tone of disappointment I’ve been hearing since childhood. “You already missed the Nutcracker, and your father is furious about your continued avoidance of his very generous job offer.”
“I’m working, Mom.”
“Working on what? That little tree thing? Reed, you need to be practical. Your father has been more than patient, but you need to prepare for your arrival at the company.”
“I’m not taking the job.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t live off your agricultural nonsense. Why pass up a sure paycheck?”
The words sting because she’s not entirely wrong. If this investor meeting doesn’t work out, I’ll be exactly where my parents predicted—broke, failed, and crawling to Nicholas Industries.
“I have to go,” I say.
