Chapter 10 Reed
Reed
The atrium at Bramblewood Manor glows with holiday warmth and startup anxiety.
My trees—all twenty-four we coaxed through despite the odds—serve as centerpieces on the tables, with the extras decorating the buffet.
Their wee needles seem to wave under the twinkle lights Eliza helped me rig after our hot nut lunch.
It wasn’t a date, and that’s because I’m in a position of power over her regarding this very estate, and I would do well to remember that.
I adjust my tie for the tenth time, running through my presentation notes.
The room is filling with the investors I need: men in expensive suits, women in jewelry that costs more than my hybrid sedan, and nonbinary superstars with exquisite socks—Pittsburgh’s angel investors gathering to see which businesses will get their wings.
I wish I wasn’t staring at my parents at one of the tables.
My mother catches my eye, and her smile feels bright and artificial. My father sits beside her with his face in his phone. I know they sought invitations, always butting in.
“Reed.” Mandy Warnick appears at my elbow, consulting her tablet. “We’re ready to begin whenever you are.”
I nod, scanning the crowd for Eliza. She said she’d be here after she checked on the herd, but I don’t see her anywhere among the designer dresses and perfectly styled hair.
Then a side door opens, and there she is.
She ditched her coat somewhere and looks stunning in a blue sweater, her eyes impossibly dark.
Her hair is pulled in a simple ponytail, and she seems right at home among this crowd, even though she said she hates wealthy people.
Eliza finds a seat at a table near the back and smiles at me above the polished heads.
I have eyes only for her as I approach the podium, my nerves slipping into an emotion-cocktail of sexual frustration, attraction, and financial terror.
“Welcome, everyone,” Mandy announces. “We are so excited to begin our showcase this evening. We’ve got some incredible budding businesses growing right here in Pittsburgh, and I know you’re all eager to learn about them. Up first, we have Reed Nicholas of Urban Forest Solutions.”
I smile through the polite applause, keeping my gaze locked on Eliza and hoping this gives me an air of studying the entire audience. She is calm and still, her blue sweater reminding me of the evening sky. She’s a friendly face in a room full of vultures who might determine my entire future.
I guess it’s wrong to think of investors as carrion birds, but it’s hard not to feel a bit like roadkill, especially since my first and most perfect batch of trees was eaten by goats in a matter of minutes.
“Good evening,” I begin, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Each of your tables features my flagship product.” I pause while people look and nod at their centerpieces.
“These aren’t just mini Christmas trees.
They represent a fundamental shift in how we think about urban agriculture and sustainable holiday traditions. ”
I fall into my rhythm, explaining the hydroponic system, the environmental benefits, the market potential.
Every time I start to feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I’m proposing, I look at Eliza.
She’s leaning forward slightly, focused entirely on what I’m saying, and somehow that makes everything else fade into the background.
I warm up a bit and talk about pesticides, the ways I avoid them, and the benefits of living decorations people can admire year-round.
A hand shoots up in the audience. “What’s your projected return on investment?” asks a man I recognize as one of my father’s golf partners.
“Based on market research and pre-orders already secured, we’re projecting thirty percent growth year over year for the first five years,” I respond, grateful for all the hours I spent perfecting these numbers.
More questions follow. Production costs. Scalability. Distribution logistics. I answer each one with confidence, occasionally glancing at my notes but mostly speaking from months of preparation and genuine passion for the project.
I’m explaining the potential for expansion into other plant products when I hear it—the distinctive sound of my father’s laugh. Not amused laughter, but the condescending chuckle he reserves for ideas he finds na?ve.
“Well,” Mandy Warnick’s voice tinkles from the audience, “I think we’ve all heard enough to get the picture.”
She approaches the podium, perfectly coiffed, with an iron-on smile.
I nod and back away as she introduces the next presenter.
Taking my seat at a side table, I try to listen politely to presentations about bespoke shirts and mineral deodorant.
Then I try to tune out and silence the inner critic insisting these presentations are all superior to mine.
When it’s over, my father stands up and the entire room seems to shift its attention to him. Charles Nicholas commands attention wherever he goes, a skill honed by decades of closing million-dollar deals and intimidating anyone who dares challenge his authority.
“I have to say, son, this is quite an impressive… hobby you’ve developed here.” He strides toward me, waving to his acquaintances. “Very academic.”
The word drips with disdain, and I feel my dreams crumbling around me.
“But I think what our investors here are interested in,” my father continues, clapping me on the back hard enough to make me stumble slightly, “is a real business opportunity. Scalable ventures with proven market demand.”
“This is a proven concept,” I say, trying to maintain my professional composure while my father effectively dismantles everything I’ve worked for. I can already feel the crowd drifting toward the deodorant people. “The environmental benefits alone—”
“Oh, the environment.” My father waves a dismissive hand. “Of course, of course. Very important for the young generation to feel good about their purchases. But at the end of the day, Nicholas Industries understands that business is about profit margins, not saving the world.”
The room has gone completely silent. I can feel dozens of eyes watching this public humiliation, and I’m powerless to stop it without creating an even bigger scene.
“As a matter of fact,” my father continues, his voice carrying to every corner of the atrium, “Reed will be joining the family enterprise in the new year. We’re launching a sustainable development division, and this little tree experiment will make an excellent pilot project. Under proper supervision, of course.”
My mouth goes dry. “Dad, that’s not—”
“I know you’ll all want to discuss the investment opportunities this presents,” he bulldozes over my protest. “Ah, and who is this?”
He gestures to my side, where Eliza stands holding my tablet, her nose wrinkled in disdain she doesn’t bother to hide.
“Eliza Storm,” she says, her voice thick with scorn. “I need to borrow Reed for a minute—”
“You must be his assistant.” My father plows forward like a combine harvester, slicing away my dignity along with my plans. “Been helping our Reed with his little project, dear?”
Every head nearby turns to look at Eliza, and I watch her face transform. The calm confidence disappears entirely, replaced by something cold and distant. Her eyes meet mine, and I sense her waiting for me to lead what happens next.
I should correct him. Should announce that Eliza is a business owner in her own right. My friend, not my employee. I should tell this room full of potential investors she’s the reason these trees survived long enough to be presented at all.
But my father’s hand is still on my shoulder, his presence overwhelming, and the words stick in my throat like they always do when he’s asserting his authority.
“Thank you all for coming to hear my boy,” my father says to his rich friends, as if this were his event to conclude. “We’ll be in touch with detailed prospectuses for those interested in serious investment.”
The crowd disperses, heading in earnest toward the bespoke clothing guys. Several people approach my father, shaking his hand and discussing indoor tennis at the club.
I stand frozen, watching Eliza gather her coat from the back of her chair. She moves with deliberate calm, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she’s avoiding looking in my direction.
“Eliza,” I call out, stepping toward her.
She pauses at the door, turning to face me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Professional. Distant. Like we’re strangers who happened to work on a project together.
“Good luck with your new position at Nicholas Industries,” she says, her voice perfectly polite and completely empty of warmth. “I’m sure your father knows what’s best.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me standing among my perfect trees, surrounded by my father’s business associates discussing market penetration, wondering how everything I worked for just turned into everything I was trying to escape.