Twenty-Eight – Eliza
TWENTY-EIGHT
ELIZA
T he air in the registration suite is thick with polished egos and overpriced cologne.
A semicircle of middle-aged men in navy suits are flipping through my pitch packet like it’s written in a foreign language. One of them clears his throat. Another actually yawns.
Where the hell is Harrison?
I straighten my spine and plant my heels into the carpet.
“Are you Miss Eliza Hart?” one of them finally asks, not looking up from his folder.
“Yes, I am.”
“Hmmm. I see that your company falls under the hospitality and tourism realm more than agriculture.” He’s still not looking up at me. “Can you tell us a little bit about it?”
“Well, first…” I pause. They’re all staring down at their phones or flipping through paperwork, making it clear that this is just a formality to them.
It matters like hell to me, though…
I take a deep breath, holding back a much-deserved, “Can you motherfuckers look up at me and stop being so damn rude?”
“My name is Eliza Hart, and I’m a part of the biggest and best luxury resort in the entire South called The Hart Farms,” I say.
“It’s so peaceful and relaxing—that you’ll never feel the need to look at your phone and wonder what you’re missing by being somewhere else…
you’ll be exactly where you need to be, in the most beautiful place you’ll ever imagine. ”
A few of the men look up, and as I move to the center of the room—to get better eye contact with all of them—the others slowly put down their phones and focus. On me.
“Didn’t your brother plan to handle the pitch?”
“No,” I say. “My brother knows who the expert is.”
One of them chuckles. Another arches a brow.
“I understand you’re looking to invest in eco-sustainable hospitality options. Specifically boutique-level rural properties. I can tell you exactly why Jackson Farms has the infrastructure and momentum to outperform anything else on your list.”
I reach for the clicker and cue up the slides Harrison said I wasn’t ready to present alone. The projector screen lights up with time-lapse drone shots of our gardens, orchards, spa renovations.
“Our weekend occupancy rate hasn’t dipped below 92% in over a year, even during off-season months.
We’ve introduced a zero-waste composting initiative that’s lowered operational costs by 18% in six months, and our on-site cooking school brings in a secondary revenue stream that’s grown 70% year over year. ”
I click again.
“But the numbers are only part of the story. Our guests come back because they feel something when they’re on our land. Peace. Permission to slow down. We aren’t selling just luxury—we’re offering grounded, sustainable escape.”
The room is quiet.
The good kind.
One of the men leans forward. “Who designed this pitch?”
“I did.”
“No PR firm?” “No Manhattan consultant?”
“Just me. And a little elbow grease.”
Someone whistles. Another one mutters “Impressive” under his breath.
“Do you have time for a follow-up meeting this afternoon?” the man on the end asks.
“I’ll check my calendar,” I say, though my heart is trying to leap out of my chest.
As they shuffle out with nods and handshakes, I finally glance toward the back corner—where I catch the glint of a suit jacket slipping behind the glass wall.
Harrison was here. Watching.
But he didn’t come to my rescue, and I didn’t need him to…