Okay, so we show them some new numbers. Some flashy, sexy predictions they haven’t seen before. But based on what? We can’t just pull a bunch of graphs out of our ass. I know enough finance to massage the statistics a bit, but there’s got to be something to massage in the first place. Optimistic projections are one thing; bald-faced lies are quite another. Even if we can fool the board in the short term, we’ll just be left holding the bag later, and begging for another chance won’t go nearly so well the second time around.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I try to loosen my stiff shoulders so the masseuse can do her job. It’s damn near impossible to relax with all this on my mind.

There’s no way around it—we need solid evidence to back up our fairy-dust forecast. We need an assload of new clients, or at least some promising prospects, and we need them ASAP. But already we’ve been hustling like crazy for months. We’ve tried everything. We’ve tapped everyone. At this point, we’d just be pestering the same people and annoying the hell out of them in the process. How pathetic would that be? Nobody enjoys a hard sell. And I don’t even know if I have the energy for that anymore.

Unless . . . we can encourage them to come to us, instead of us chasing them. Can we create a scenario where corporate bigwigs actually want to hear our pitches? Or at least something to make them receptive, relaxed, willing to listen, willing to take a chance on new deals.

A fun, laid-back atmosphere . . .

Free food and drinks are always a guaranteed hit, even with billionaires who can damn well afford their own. Ideally, in the interest of time, we would gather as many prospects in one room as possible so we can woo them all at once instead of scheduling a zillion individual meetings over the course of several weeks.

But we’d need it to be more than that, it would have to be the best damn party this city’s ever seen.

Inspiration strikes like lightning. I bolt up from the massage table with a gasp.

“Mrs. Tate? Is something wrong?” the masseuse asks, startled.

“No, it’s okay.” Something is very right, in fact. I can’t stop myself from grinning with excitement; she probably thinks I’ve gone crazy. “Sorry to be so abrupt, but I have to leave. Please go ahead and charge me for the full hour.”

Without waiting for her response, I dash behind the curtain and throw on my clothes while texting Noah.

Olivia: Meet me in my office. I have a plan.

And if my instincts are on the mark, it’ll turn this company around for good.

• • •

After dark like this, especially on a Sunday night, the building is deserted. I’ve been here before at odd hours, and such deep stillness always gives me an eerie feeling, like I’m the only person left on the planet. But I’m on a mission now, so I hardly notice. The silence gives way before the quick, steady tapping of my footsteps as I walk to my office.

By the time I hear Noah coming down the hall, I’ve already typed out a press release and fired it off to the New York Times. Boom! I pump my fist in the air, feeling giddy with the surprise attack I’m about to unleash on the business world.

Noah steps inside my office without knocking. “What the hell is going on? You said you had an idea?” He doesn’t need to add, It better be a fucking fantastic one to drag me into work on a Sunday evening. He must have dropped everything to hurry straight here—he’s wearing jeans and an old T-shirt, his hair disheveled.

“I do. I’ve already sent out a press release.” I take a deep breath to ease the fluttering in my stomach. “Picture it—we’re going to throw the biggest, best gala New York City has ever seen. We’ll invite all the corporate bigwigs from firms we’ve wanted to woo, but didn’t know how to snag meetings with. We’ll show a brief presentation at the start—no more than ten minutes—just a few bold, hard-hitting, buzz-worthy clips of our company in action, the results we’ve achieved for our clients . . .” I wave my hand. “And then we mingle.”

Noah is still standing in the doorway, squinting at me like he can’t quite parse my words. “So you’re saying . . . we’re going to throw a party?” he asks skeptically. “This is the grand plan I put on pants and hauled ass halfway across the city for?” His tone is serious, but his smirk tells me he’s not actually mad. I’ve found there’s very little he wouldn’t do for me.

I nod eagerly. “Exactly. It’ll solve everything.”

“You’re going to have to convince me.”

Unable to sit still any longer, I jump up and start pacing the narrow space between the wall and my desk. “How many times have you been to a conference or whatever, and by the end, you’ve seen so many presentations you can’t even remember who was promoting what, because they were all abstract and boring and nearly identical? If we want people to remember us, we have to be memorable. Which means being fresh and different—and being fun. This party will make Tate & Cane stand out in their minds and will create a psychological association between us and all sorts of positive feelings.”

Noah sits down in the chair in front of my desk, as if he’s a client I’m pitching to—which I guess he kind of is. “I get what you’re saying, but it still seems all very fuzzy and touchy-feely. It’s hardly a guaranteed solution.”

“I know this party idea isn’t money in the bank, but I’m not just spitballing here, either. Storytelling is a well-proven branding strategy.”