Chapter 1- The Pitch Massacre
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single stakeholder with a seven-figure budget must be in want of a closer.
Of course it was, Lizette “Lizzie” Benítez thought as she paced the sleek, cold reception area on the twelfth floor of Pemberley Pharmaceuticals, waiting to give the presentation that could change her life.
You are going to be their closer, chica. Breathe.
Lizzie was good — top one percent in supply-chainbrujería, the kind that turned chaos into cash. But translating hard numbers into C-suite poetry? That was the part that turned her palms into little fountains.
Especially when the client was Pemberley Pharmaceuticals. One signature on that contract meant two years’ salary in her bank account. A reallechónforNochebuenainstead of the budget turkey Abuela pretended not to hate. A new AC unit that didn’t sound like an asthmatic dragon at 3 a.m.
Maybe even enough left over to finally fix the pool that had been a swamp since Hurricane Irma.
She needed this.
She knew her analysis was bulletproof. She’d lived in their data for weeks — every late-nightcafecito, everypastelito-fueled spreadsheet. The fixes she’d designed would save them millions. She just had to make them see it.
Lizzie smoothed the lapel of her favorite pink blazer — vintage buttons, power color, the one that made her feel like a Cuban Barbie who could ruin your margins and your life. Wide-leg navy trousers gave her an extra three inches of height she desperately needed at five-three. Wild curls wrestled into a loose chignon that said “competent but not trying too hard.” She’d changed outfits six times this morning. This one said I’m worth every penny without screaming it.
She believed in the language of clothes the way other people believed in horoscopes. She watched people closely and turned the scrutiny to herself most severely.
The receptionist gave her a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Somewhere behind the frosted glass, Charles Bing — golden-retriever COO and her only ally in this building — was probably doing jazz hands to keep the mood light.
Then she heard voices on the other side of the wall.
“Oh, hey boss, you joining us for this thing?” She recognized this as Charles.
“Figured if you guys are going to waste my money, I might as well hear the pitch.” The second voice was low, bored, and sharp enough to cut glass.
“You’re the one who said we needed to streamline.”
“Yeah, well, that was before the last three consultants tried to sell me ‘streamline’ in Comic Sans. Word is this one’s some boutique outfit sending a chubby amateur who’s barely old enough to drink. What fresh hell is this one going to bring that I haven’t already deleted from my spam folder?”
Lizzie’s heartbeat went fromcafecitobuzz to fullreggaetondrop.
Her Apple Watch flashed red: 112 bpm.
Amateur?
Chubby?
She was curvy by Kendall standards, stacked by Hialeah standards, and right now she was furious by any standard. Chubby stung, but Amateur really hurt. She’d been called lots of things, but never that. Even when she was new, her competency was never questioned.
“Hey, Lizzie!” Charles called, poking his head out, oblivious to Lizzie’s rising heart rate. “Ready for you!”
She plastered on the sweetest smile in her arsenal, grabbed her bag, and walked in like she owned the building.
Game on.
Once there, Charles went through the perfunctory introductions of the people at the table—all of whom she’d met before—except the man in the charcoal-tailored suit seated at the head, staring at his phone, until Charles got to him.
“And this is Mr. William Pemberley, our CEO.”
Will Pemberley looked up from his phone, and the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. Lizzie could see now that his top button was undone, like a dare. His hair was black and in an unkempt, wavy style that felt like it cost $400 to make it look like he didn’t care how he looked.
Lizzie was fairly certain this was the person she’d heard with Charles earlier, and his voice when he said, “Thanks for coming in today,” confirmed it. He scanned her as he rose to his feet and extended his hand, exposing a tattoo on his wrist.Coordinates? Lizzie made a note to look them up later.
Lizzie hoped her face, while pleasant, relayed that she knew what he thought and was looking forward to surprising him. The handshake lasted half a second too long, and she could feel him testing her grip strength.My abuelo used to do the same thing, she thought.You don’t intimidate me.
