Chapter 52
PITCHPOCALYPSE
NOLAN
The air inside the conference hall is a cocktail of nerves, ambition, and way too much perfume.
Every firm is locked and loaded, their top players flanking their team leads like knights guarding royalty. Except ours. Thatcher left the island abruptly. Said he had important business to tend to. Like this isn’t. No problem, he wasn’t contributing to anything anyway.
CrossMedia execs lounge in white chairs up front. Asher Cross is in the center, Shelby Davidson at his side, Celeste Monroe draped over a different chair, scrolling through her phone.
The energy shifts.
This is it.
The final day. The last chance. The moment everything we worked for either catches fire...or burns to worthless ash.
Across the aisle, Jeremy leans back in his seat, watching the stage with theatrical boredom, but his foot taps out a silent, jittery rhythm that gives him away.
Next to him, Maya sits stiffly, looking poised, polished, but even from here, I catch the slight tremble in her hand when she tucks her hair behind her ear.
I follow her gaze and find Asher flicking glances at her when he thinks she isn’t looking.
She’s doing everything she can to pretend he doesn’t exist. She’s poised. And fierce. Go her.
I turn my attention to my center of gravity. Rorie.
The second she moves into position at the podium, the whole world tilts a few degrees closer to her. She doesn’t strut or swagger. She doesn’t need to.
She stands there, clutching her notes, adjusting the mic with fingers that quiver so faintly only someone who knows her like I do would see it.
My heart punches my ribs. Not with nerves. With pride. She’s about to own this room—and she doesn’t even realize it yet.
I’m leaning forward, my elbows on my knees, not bothering to hide the stupid smile pulling at my mouth.
She’s going to be unforgettable.
She already is.
Rorie breathes in deep, and I see the tiny shift when the nerves bleed out and the steel kicks in.
The woman who made me fall so fast and hard I still haven’t hit the ground.
The woman who made me believe again.
“Good morning,” she starts, her voice clear and calm now. “You’ve seen some incredible pitches today. Bold ideas. Big visions. We could’ve given you another version of that. But we’re not here to blend in.”
She pauses, lets it breathe, lets the words hang, owning the silence. And then she presses the button.
The first image blazes onto the screen behind her: a glittering coastline, the kind of scene you see in movie trailers right before the plot twists your heart in two.
“This is about something bigger,” she continues. “Something timeless. Something unforgettable. Something CrossMedia.”
Her eyes flick to Asher. To Shelby. And—God help me—to me. For half a second, she smiles a tiny, private smile that’s ours.
She’s not scared.
She’s home.
The presentation unfolds like a movie script. Golden beaches, poker tables tucked into shadowy corners, speedboats carving through sapphire water. It’s not just scenic. It’s cinematic.
It’s not a pitch.
It’s a seduction.
“Cross Media and White Thorn Resort will never be just another luxury chain. You are the memory people hold dear—the place they think about long after they’ve returned home. And what’s more unforgettable than stepping into a world that feels straight out of the most iconic moments in history?”
Images change. Old film stills. Monte Carlo. James Bond. She’s not pitching a brand. She’s pitching a world.
I glance toward Shelby Davidson. She’s leaning in now.
“This,” Rorie continues, “is The Cross Affair.”
My pulse spikes. Around me, people are leaning forward. Whispering. Hooked.
Shelby looks like she’s already mentally packing her vintage luggage for the first reservation.
And me? I sit, watching the love of my life turn a room full of sharks into believers.
Watching her shine.
Watching her win.
Not because she needs me. But because she never needed anyone's permission to be extraordinary.
She paints the entire experience like a scene from a high-stakes movie. Cocktail lounges, hidden messages, mystery adventures. She hits every note like she’s known them all along.
Her voice softens at the end. “We’re not just selling a destination. We’re selling an era. A fantasy they’ll never stop talking about. And will continue to crave more of, hopefully…forever.”
Another glance at me before she finishes. There’s a heartbeat of silence and then the applause hits, loud and rolling like thunder.
She steps back from the podium, her shoulders lifting, then falling with a visible exhale. She catches my eye across the room. Her fingers brush the bracelet at her wrist.
The anchor.
Our anchor.
And I swear to God, if there’s one thing I know in this moment, it’s this:
I didn’t lose her.
I found her.
The only thing that ever mattered.
And this time?
I’m not letting her go.
The air tastes like salt and nerves. Rishi adjusts the mic on the podium while I run through the checklist in my head—presentation, lighting, video snippets cued up.
Big Stream’s final pitch is supposed to begin in less than five minutes. The room is buzzing, execs stretching, murmuring, drinks being refilled.
Asher Cross leans casually against a side table, chatting with Shelby. Maya’s nowhere to be seen.
Rorie’s sitting near the back, laughing at something Jeremy said, her bracelet flashing under the lights. And even though we’re rivals right now, even though we’re supposed to be enemies—I still feel it. That anchor line that never snapped.
“Flash drive,” Rishi mutters beside me. “You got it?”
“Jackson,” I bark. “Grab the drive. It’s in my briefcase.”
He grunts, already moving, the cocky little shit with too much gel in his hair and too much entitlement in his veins.
I turn back to double-check the speaker settings.
Behind me—
A click. Soft, like a heartbeat skipping.
A screen lights up.
Not our pitch.
Not the title screen we prepped.
Not the luxury resort logo.
The Rorie Report.
Her name—Rorie Adams—sprawls across the center of the massive projection screen in a bold font.
Silence slams down over the room like a dropped anvil. I whip around. My blood goes ice cold.
On the screen:
A scanned page.
Typed evaluations.
Annotations.
Private. Confidential. Personal.
And everyone is reading it.
The first slide sucks the breath from my lungs.
Subject displays high-functioning performance tendencies masking emotional instability. Possible flight risk. Unresolved grief patterns noted.
Her mother’s medical records. All the years spent in and out of hospitals.
Hospice bills.
Father’s obituary.
The next page—
Screenshots of her high school transcripts. Red marks. Failures.
A disciplinary report about a noise complaint from college. Her financial aid almost getting revoked. An eviction notice because her boyfriend ghosted and she couldn’t make rent.
Photos.
Notes about Rorie’s writing samples, complete with editorial comments picked apart line-by-line.
Her elementary school evaluations.
Bright but easily distracted. Perfectionist tendencies. Struggles to ask for help.
It’s every mistake she’s ever made. Every crack she’s ever tried to plaster over. Every vulnerable, hidden piece she never gave permission to share.
Projected.
Exposed.
Ripped open.
A wounded gasp brushes my eardrums. My eyes snap to the sound.
Rorie.
She’s standing now, one hand over her mouth, her face drained of color. Tears welling, wobbling, falling. Her body sways like she’s been hit by a bullet.
The room—this fucking room—stays silent, stunned into horror.
My heart stops.
No. No, no, no, no.
This was never supposed to see the light of day. I surge toward the tech table, rip the cord out of the laptop like it might fix it.
The screen goes black. But the damage is done.
Everyone saw.
I turn and Rorie is already walking. No—running.
Pushing past chairs, past startled execs, past Maya and Jeremy shouting after her.
Gone.
Jackson stumbles forward, trying to sputter something about a mistake. I don’t hear him. I can only hear the static in my skull—the roar of my own pulse breaking apart as I realize:
I did this.
Me.
I let it happen.
I didn’t protect her.
She trusted me.
And I gutted her.
Publicly.
Viscerally.
I don’t know how my legs move, but they do. Shoving through the stunned crowd. Ignoring the voices calling after me.
I have to find her. I have to fix this.
I have to tell her that none of this matters. That she’s more than her past. More than her wounds. More than every scar that stupid report dragged into the light. That she’s everything.
Everything I want.
Everything I need.
The conference doors slam behind me as I hit the hallway, my breath scraping raw in my throat.
“Rorie!” I call out, but my voice feels swallowed by the cavernous, echoing halls. She's nowhere. Just flickers of retreating footsteps and the distant creak of an exit door swinging shut.
I sprint, not thinking, not breathing, just moving.
Down the hall. Past a stunned staff member. Shoving open the glass door to the terrace.
Outside, the mid-morning heat slams into me. The ocean churns in the distance, mocking my frantic heartbeat with its slow, calming rhythm.
There—
A flash of dark hair. A sway of a yellow blouse disappearing toward the private paths that thread toward the cottages.
“Rorie!”
She doesn't stop. Doesn't even glance back.
Chasing her down the winding trail, gravel crunches beneath my shoes. Every step driving the guilt deeper into my chest like a nail.
When I finally catch up, she's standing at the edge of the path, her back to me, her shoulders shaking in silent, furious sobs.
I don’t touch her. I don’t deserve to.
I stand there, pulse pounding in my ears, trying to find words when nothing could possibly be enough.
“Rorie,” I rasp, voice broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
She turns—cautiously, as though even that costs her something—and when her eyes meet mine, it’s like being carved open with a blade I handed her myself.