Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tristan
“If I have to stare at this ceiling for one more day, I might actually lose my mind.”
I pause in the doorway of the living room, watching as Zoe lies sprawled on the sofa, her head hanging upside down off the edge. She’s been stuck in this penthouse for three days since Forbes dropped his bombshell, and it’s clearly driving her insane.
“You could always count the protein bars again,” I suggest, leaning against the doorframe. “I think you had them in order of fiber content yesterday.”
She lifts her head just enough to glare at me. “Don’t tempt me. I was actually considering alphabetizing them by flavor next.”
“Ambitious.” I step fully into the room, tugging on a jacket. “But maybe save that excitement for tomorrow. I’ve got something better.”
“Unless it involves leaving this prison, I’m not interested.” She flops back down, staring at the ceiling again.
I check my watch. 4:30 PM. The presentation that could make or break our newest tech launch is tomorrow morning, and I’m still not confident in the pitch. I need fresh eyes. Smart eyes. Eyes that won’t bullshit me because they’re afraid of the Sterling name.
“I’m going to the office to work on my pitch for tomorrow,” I announce. “You’re coming with me.”
That gets her attention. She sits up so fast I’m worried she might have given herself whiplash. “Excuse me? I am not.”
“Yes, you are.” I tick off reasons on my fingers.
“One, I can’t leave you here alone. Pack rules.
Two, you are literally the only person I know with a background in aesthetics and a tolerance for my bullshit.
I need a fresh pair of eyes.” I pause, pulling out my secret weapon. “Please. I’ll buy you takeout.”
Her eyes narrow, but I can see the wheels turning.
“What kind of takeout?” she asks, and I know I’ve got her.
“Whatever you want. Thai. Italian. That weird fusion place that puts kimchi in burritos.”
“I know that place. It’s not weird, it’s fucking delicious,” she mutters, but she’s already standing up, smoothing down her leggings. “Fine. But I’m not wearing heels. And I want pad thai. The expensive kind with the real crab, not the imitation stuff.”
“Done and done,” I agree, relief flooding through me. “We leave in ten.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in my Aston Martin, racing through the early evening traffic toward the Sterling Solutions building downtown. I glance over at Zoe, who’s pressed against the passenger window, drinking in the sights of the city like a woman who’s been stranded in the desert.
“It’s only been three days,” I point out, amused.
“Three days is ninety-six hours,” she counters without looking at me. “That’s 5,760 minutes of looking at the same walls, the same furniture, and the same four alphas.”
“Hey, we’re not that bad to look at,” I protest, feigning offense.
That gets me a small smile, just the corner of her mouth lifting. “No, you’re not,” she admits quietly. Then, louder: “But variety is the spice of life, and I am desperately underseasoned.”
I laugh. Genuinely. I may make jokes all the time, but it’s damn hard for others to really make me laugh. They’re always too busy playing the game.
My gaze slides to her again. It’s one of the things I like about Zoe. She doesn’t simper or flatter. She just... is. After a lifetime of people trying to curry favor with the Sterling name, she is like a breath of fresh air.
We pull into the private underground parking beneath Sterling Solutions, the sleek, 70-story glass tower that houses our corporate headquarters. At this hour, the garage is nearly empty, just a few cars belonging to the most dedicated (or desperate) employees.
“Whoa,” Zoe says as we enter the lobby, her head tilting back to take in the soaring atrium. “This is... intense.”
I follow her gaze. I suppose it is a bit much. The three-story waterfall wall, the suspended glass staircase, the massive Sterling Solutions logo that glows with a subtle light.
“Rett designed it,” I say, leading her toward the private executive elevator at the back. “Subtlety isn’t really his strong suit.”
“You don’t say,” she murmurs, and when I meet her gaze, the usual guarded watchfulness in her brown eyes has softened, replaced by a warm, crinkling humor at the corners.
The elevator is waiting for us. The doors slide open silently, and I gesture for her to enter. She steps inside, turning slowly to take in the panoramic view as we rise above the city. The sun is just beginning to set, painting the skyline in shades of gold and crimson.
“It’s beautiful,” she says softly, her hand pressed against the glass.
“It is,” I agree, though I’m not looking at the city.
She catches me watching her in the reflection of the glass and turns, one eyebrow raised. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like...” She waves a hand vaguely. “Like that.”
I grin, not even trying to deny it. “Like what, exactly?”
“Like I’m the pad thai you promised me,” she says dryly.
The elevator comes to a smooth stop at the top floor, and I lead her through the silent, darkened executive suite. The absence of the usual bustle makes the space feel larger than it usually does.
“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.”
I’m acutely aware of how close she is. Close enough that I can smell the light cherry blossom fragrance that clings to her, feel the warmth radiating from her body. When I turn my head slightly, her neck is just inches from my mouth. I could press my lips to that spot, renew my claim...
I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to the screen. “Mutual benefit. Got it.”
She pulls back slightly, as if sensing the sudden shift in my focus. “And this visual,” she continues, her voice a touch higher than before. “It’s too cluttered. You want the product to be the hero, not buried under a mountain of text.”
I nod, making the change. “Better?”
“Much,” she agrees. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, we’re both perfectly still, caught in a charged silence.
I break it first, turning back to the tablet. “Let’s run through it again. From the top.”