Thirty-Seven – Eliza
THIRTY-SEVEN
ELIZA
Conference, Day Nine
M y palms are sweating as I grip the edges of the podium, trying to steady my breath.
I click to the next slide in my pitch deck—an aerial rendering of what the farm will look like in five years: luxury guest rooms tucked behind restored silos, a serene wedding lawn outlined by wildflowers, an actual rose garden that looks like something out of a magazine.
I stick to the facts. I talk about occupancy rates, sustainable revenue models, customer loyalty metrics. But my voice doesn’t sound nervous anymore.
It sounds strong.
Confident.
Somewhere along the way, I stop reading from my notes. I just talk —and I can feel the shift. People are paying attention. Hanging on every word. Even Harper Sage isn’t checking her phone.
“I may be a Southern girl who spent most of her life tending cattle instead of spreadsheets,” I say, letting the edge of my accent slip through, “and I know I only have a business degree, not an MBA. But my late parents taught me how to recognize a sure thing when I see it.”
I pause, looking out at the room.
“And my farm resort? That’s a sure thing.”
I hit the final slide.
Silence.
Dozens of eyes still locked on me, unreadable. For one awful second, I wonder if I completely misjudged the room. Were they captivated… or horrified?
Did I just blow it?
I scan the crowd—searching, aching for reassurance—and then I see him.
Harrison.
He’s near the back. Rising slowly to his feet.
And he starts clapping.
One slow, deliberate clap after another.
And then someone else joins in. Then another. Until nearly the entire room—everyone except Harper—is on their feet. Applauding me.
A standing ovation.
I nod into the mic, barely remembering how to breathe. “Thank you.”
As I step down from the stage, handing off my slides to the tech assistant, I catch Harrison’s eye. My feet move toward him before I can think.
I lift my arms for a hug—grinning, breathless—but he doesn’t move.
He gently lowers my arms.
“Oh… not in public?” I ask, laughing awkwardly.
“Right,” he says. “And not ever again.”
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t give me an answer.
“Want to join me on the rooftop for drinks?” I ask, trying to recover. “Can you believe I got a standing ovation?”
“I’ll have to raincheck on that.”
The chill in his tone hits me like a slap. I laugh again, nervous. “Well, I’m done for the evening, so maybe we can?—”
“You should graciously mingle with vendors and sponsors until the ballroom closes,” he says, cutting me off. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to me. “I have no doubt you’ll get plenty of business after this. Can you sign off on this?”
I stare at him, then take the pen from his pocket and scrawl my name on the line, my chest tightening.
“Can we talk outside for a second, Harrison?” I whisper. “Something’s off with you.”
“It was a pleasure having you as a client, Miss Hart.” His voice is cold. Formal.
I blink harder this time, certain I misheard him.
“You can take up to two weeks to move your things out of my condo,” he adds, still not looking at me. “I’ll check in with the doorman before I return so we don’t cross paths.”
“Harrison, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m saying goodbye, Eliza,” he says. “Our business is officially done.”
I take a shaky breath. “Our business ? You mean our relationship, too?”
His expression doesn’t change. “We never had a relationship. And we never will.”
I don’t even feel the floor under me anymore.
“Good luck,” he adds, then turns and walks away like I meant nothing.
I open my mouth to say his name, to scream, to run after him —but someone touches my arm before I can move.
“Miss Hart?” a man says breathlessly. “Your presentation was incredible. Could I speak to you about making a one-month reservation at the farm?”
I smile because I’m supposed to. Because that’s what people like me do.
I nod, and I smile.
And I pretend I didn’t just break into a thousand pieces.