“This way,” I say, guiding her toward the massive boardroom at the end of the hall. “Home of a thousand terrible pitches and at least one mental breakdown. Marketing VP lost it during the Q3 review last year. Started crying into his spreadsheets.”
“Charming.”
We walk into the massive, glass-walled boardroom, a space that’s dark except for the glow of the enormous presentation screen and the twinkling cityscape outside.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I tell her, gesturing to the array of ergonomic leather chairs. “This might take a while.”
She chooses a seat near the head of the table, spinning slightly in the chair like a kid. “So what exactly is this pitch about? Or is it covered by one of those NDAs you never made me sign?”
My lips quirk. “It’s for our biggest launch of the year. The one product that could finally put us ahead of Sterling Industries.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “The company Rett’s father runs.”
“The very same.” I don’t bother hiding the edge in my voice. “It’s a wearable tech product that’s going to revolutionize how alphas and omegas connect in professional settings.”
“How very... specific,” she says, her tone carefully…neutral.
I launch into the pitch, the same one I’ve been practicing for days. It’s polished, professional, filled with the kind of corporate jargon that board members eat up. I pace as I speak, gesturing to slides, running through market projections and competitive analyses.
When I finish, I turn to her expectantly. “Well?”
She tilts her head, considering. “It’s... fine.”
“Fine?” I repeat, incredulous. “That’s it? Fine?”
“I mean, it’s technically proficient,” she clarifies. “But it’s also... soulless. Corporate. You used the phrase ‘disruptive paradigm’ twice in one sentence.”
I rake a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the coils as my frustration builds. “It’s a corporate pitch. To a corporate board. For a corporate product.”
“But you’re not corporate,” she counters, leaning forward. “You’re Tristan Sterling. The hot Sterling brother with the dimple that makes omegas swoon and slick at big charity art galas and art galleries alike.”
I blink. “You think I’m hot?”
A faint blush colors her cheeks, but she ignores my question. “You’re bold. And loud. And unconventional. So why are you suddenly pitching like some mid-level MBA with a PowerPoint template?”
I glance at the slides. She’s right. This isn’t me. This is me trying to be Rett. Strategic. By-the-book. But that’s never been my strength.
“Okay,” I say, setting the tablet down. “What would you do differently?”
She stands, coming around the table to join me. “First, ditch half these slides. No one needs to see seventeen different market penetration charts.”
“Market penetration is important,” I protest weakly.
“So is other penetration, but I’m not complaining.”
Huh? Before my slow-ass brain catches up, she’s already moved on to something else.
“Don’t put your audience to sleep.” She reaches for the tablet. “Here, let me show you.”
For the next hour, we work side by side, dismantling and rebuilding my presentation. Zoe is ruthless, cutting jargon, reordering slides, suggesting more dynamic visuals. I push back on some points, concede others. It’s a battle of wits, and she’s giving as good as she gets.
Soon, I find myself watching her more than the screen. The way her brow furrows in concentration, the graceful movement of her hands as she gestures, the slight curl of her lip when she finds a particularly egregious buzzword.
“‘Synergistic value proposition’?” she reads aloud, shooting me an incredulous look. “Did you seriously write that with a straight face?”
I shrug, not even caring about the presentation at this point. She’s so focused, she doesn’t even notice I can’t pull my gaze away from her.
“Those are words people use when they have nothing to actually say.” She leans over my shoulder, pointing at the screen. “Change it to ‘mutual benefit.’ Same meaning.”
