OFF PITCH

ZEPHYR

I had exactly seven minutes to convince a billionaire I deserved a contract worth more than Sterling Press had earned in its first year.

Unfortunately...

His succulent was dying. I tried not to look. Really tried.

People assumed self-control meant resisting temptation. Mine involved resisting the urge to

Diagnose neglected plants in important meetings.

Today… I was losing.

It was overwatered.

Someone had murdered the poor plant.

The boardroom overlooked the Formula One paddock through floor-to-ceiling glass. Beyond the windows, mechanics wheeled stacks of racing tires between immaculate garages while the distant growl of engines echoed through the circuit. Helicopters drifted overhead. Team personnel hurried across the pit lane with practiced precision.

Inside, however, everything was immaculate.

Matte black marble floors. Dark walnut walls. A twelve-seat conference table carved from a single slab of oak. Minimalist artwork celebrating decades of Formula One history. The polished golden plaque beside the entrance reads, Blackwell Holdings.

The private investment group behind one of Formula One’s largest commercial publishing and luxury licensing portfolios.

At the head of the table sat Tristan Blackwell. Billionaire. Visionary Investor. A man whose reputation in business circles was almost mythical.

He looked as though he stepped out of the cover of a luxury magazine – a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, silver cufflinks, dark hair streaked elegantly at the temples, and sharp blue eyes that seemed capable of calculating a company’s worth before its CEO spoke.

He was effortlessly handsome. The sort of handsome built on confidence rather than youth. The kind that made boardrooms quieter the moment he entered them.

I barely noticed him, still focused on the plant.

“Ms. Sterling”

I dragged my eyes back from the drooping plant to the hard voice.

Don’t tell him the plant is dying.

Don’t.

Don’t.

“Sorry,” I exclaimed with sheer sincerity. “Your plant is dying.”

Silence

Mr. Blackwell, along with his three executives, stared at me like I cracked a joke or something.

His hard eyes slowly looked down at the neglected succulent.

“...Excuse me?”

“Root Rot,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Too much water. If someone does not Repot it in the next week, it will die.”

My assistant, Rory, closed her eyes. Not Again.

Mr. Blackwell cleared his throat, his expression unreadable.

“Ms. Sterling,” he said, boring his hard eyes into my pitiful soul. “I appreciate your concern for my plant, but I invited you here to discuss business.”

Brilliant.

Seven seconds.

It had taken me seven seconds to tell a billionaire his plant was dying.

We were absolutely getting escorted out.

Mum would tell me honesty was a virtue. Mum had clearly never pitched to billionaires.

“Right,” I offered an unapologetic smile. “Business. Sorry.”

Rory, subtly kicked my ankle beneath the table. Behind thick-rimmed glasses, she fixed me with the same exhausted look that she perfected after three years of working together.

Seriously.

Her expression screamed. You diagnosed the billionaire’s plant before introducing yourself.

Shit.

“What.” I merely smiled back to compose my demeanor.

“I should’ve become an accountant.” Rory pinched the bridge of her nose.

Ignoring her theoretical disappointment, I adjusted the sleeves of my sage green midi dress, the soft fabric catching the morning light pouring through the glass walls.

I slid a linen-bound prototype across the polished table.

“Now,” I said, straightening my spine; all traces of humor disappeared as confidence settled naturally to my voice, “Let me show you why Sterling Press is the only publisher capable of telling your motorsports story the way it deserved to be told.”

Mr. Blackwell stopped reaching for his pen.

One executive closed his laptop.

Rory sat up.

Nobody interrupted me again.

The woman worried about a dying succulent is gone. In her place sat a CEO who knew exactly what she was worth.

“I know every major publisher is offering to produce another Formula One coffee-table book,” I paused for a few seconds.

“I’m not.”

I opened the sample. Inside were dramatic full-spread photographs, premium paper, archival printing, and elegant typography.

“Anyone can publish race cars.” I looked directly at Mr. Blackwell, whose tight expression had the faintest hint of curiosity that keeps me going.

I turned to another page.

“But the Sterling Press creates heirlooms; we want to publish a legacy...”

Silence settled over the room as I continued.

“I want a collection that fans pass down to their children. Limited editions worthy of display.

Drivers’ biographies that feel timeless. Book collectors proudly keep on their shelves long after

Today’s championship is forgotten.”

Mr. Blackwell’s fingers stopped tapping the table his words had already ricocheted my confidence to the sky.

“We use museum-grade paper that won’t yellow in decades. Every photograph is color-calibrated by hand. The binding is sewn, not glued. The foil is stamped individually. Every detail tells your customers one thing—luxury isn’t what they buy. It’s what they feel.”

One executive reached for the sample without realizing it. Another traced the embossed cover with his fingertips. Mr. Blackwell didn’t interrupt once.

“Formula one isn’t just a sport. It’s history. And history deserves better than glossy paper and forgettable covers.”

Mr. Blackwell slowly closed the sample edition.

“Do you know why every major publishing house lost this bid?”

I shook my head.

“They spent forty-five minutes talking about market projections.” A corner of his mouth lifted.

“You spent ten seconds diagnosing my dying plant and the next ten minutes convincing me my company deserves a legacy.

Mr. Blackwell uncapped his fountain pen before pausing. His fingers rested lightly against the Contract. “I like people,” he said thoughtfully, “who notice the details everyone else ignores.”

A quiet smile settled across his face. “I think Sterling Press would make an excellent publishing partner.”

For a heartbeat... I forgot how to breathe. He closed the folder instead of signing it.

“We’ll have legal prepare the final agreement this afternoon.”

Relief flooded through me so suddenly my shoulders almost sagged. We’d done it. Not officially.

Not yet. But we were close enough that I could finally see the finish line. My chest felt strangely Light.

Fifty-three employees. The thought arrived before anything else. Payroll. Health insurance. The interns worrying whether we’d renew their contracts. The designers are asking if we could finally Upgrade the computers that sound like lawnmowers every Monday morning. Maybe...

Just maybe... I could finally tell them yes.

Across the table, Rory stared at me with her mouth hanging open. She’d seen this happen before. I always looked seconds away from accidentally offending someone important...and somehow walked away with opportunities we hadn’t dared hope for.

Mr. Blackwell stood and buttoned his jacket. “It would be a shame to continue discussing business in a boardroom. He extended his hand. “As our prospective publishing partner, I’d like to invite both of you to join me in the Formula One Paddock Club this afternoon.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “We’ll enjoy the race.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the contract. “And afterward, if everything remains agreeable...” He tapped the folder once. “...we’ll make this official.”

I stood, smoothing the front of my sage-green skirt before shaking his hand. “It would be an honour.”

As our hands parted, his eyes drifted toward the struggling succulent in the corner. A guilty smile crossed his face. “I suppose I should save the plant before I lose my newest publishing partner.”

My lips curved. “I’ll email you a care guide.”

His laugh followed us out of the conference room.

As the door closed behind us, I glanced at Rory. She was already grinning.

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re mentally calculating how many lives this contract changes.”

I looked down at the leather folder tucked beneath my arm. It wasn’t about the numbers.

It never had been. It was about fifty-three people who trusted me enough to build their futures alongside mine. Today… I hadn’t just won a client. I’d bought them a little more certainty.

And somehow...

That felt even better than signing the contract itself.