“Mad?” she repeats. “Try impressed. Shelby Davidson called me this morning. Personally.”
“She called you?” I ask, pulse accelerating.
“Oh, she did,” Laurel says, her smile only growing. “And she wasn’t just impressed—she wasecstatic.Wants you front and center at their Pitchpocalypse for Asher’s upcoming brand expansion. We leave in a month.”
The words hit me like a freight train.
“Awhat?” I choke out. “Wait—Pitchpocalypse? A month?”
“Yes!” Laurel’s hands clap together, her rings flashing. “Asher’s hosting an exclusive, invite-only pitch event at his private island.The White Thorn.Five firms will compete for his brand. One will win it. And thanks to your little cocktail performance, we’re officially invited.”
I stare at her, barely processing.
This is big. Like,career-definingbig. A once-in-a-lifetime, holy-fucking-shit-who-even-gets-these-opportunities kind of big.
And all I can think is:
Nolan. Rhodes.
“Do we know who else was invited?”
“So far?” Laurel shrugs. “Just us. But I’d bet my Bentley Big Stream’s on the list.”
Of course they are.
“I’ll be ready,” I say, channeling a confidence I’m not quite sure I possess yet.
Laurel beams again. But this time it’s not the polished smile she wears in boardrooms, and meetings like this. It’s gentler. Warmer. The one that slips past her armor and actually means something.
“I know you will be,” she says. “Now, go do that brainstorming thing you do so well.”
I start to turn, but she stops me with a quieter voice.
“And Rorie?”
I pause in the doorway, glancing back.
“Don’t make me regret betting on you.” She keeps it light, but her eyes settle on me with quiet conviction. Pride, pressure, and something almost protective swims inside them.
I offer a grin, just shy of cocky. “No pressure.”
Laurel exhales a short laugh, then adds, almost as an afterthought, but not really, “Your parents would be proud, you know.”
She winks and my throat tightens. I don’t say anything—just nod once before stepping out, my heartbeat suddenly louder than it was a minute ago.
CHAPTER 17
MONDAYS ARE FOR MISTAKES
NOLAN
Monday shouldn’t suckthis much.
But the second I step into the office and spot Jackson already there—arms crossed, legs sprawled, that smug fucking smirk like he spent all morning fine-tuning it in the mirror—I know today’s out for blood.
No coffee. No peace. Just his stupid face.
“You’re in early,” I say as I brush past Jackson, already regretting showing up at all.
