CHAPTER SEVEN: THE PITCH THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
The email came on a Monday morning.
Subject: You’ve Been Selected to Pitch at the Lagos Women’s Investment Brunch
Amara read it twice before the weight of it settled in her chest. The Women’s Brunch wasn’t just any pitch event. It was "THE EVENT" — investors, media, influencers, and top-tier entrepreneurs all under one glittering rooftop at Eko Hotel.
She was one of five finalists. The only one without an official office.
Still, she replied:
“Confirmed. I’ll be there.”
The week flew by. Her team — two newly hired interns and one designer — scrambled to help her prep her slides, her brand kit, and a 3-minute pitch that could change everything.
The night before the event, she tucked Malia into bed, and the little girl whispered:
“Mommy, when you win tomorrow, can I come on TV with you?”
Amara chuckled. “Let’s not talk about winning yet, love.”
“But you’re already winning. You’re being brave.”
The morning of the event, Amara wore a deep emerald green blazer with gold earrings. Her hair was braided into a crown, her lips painted a soft red. She looked like everything Jason once underestimated — and everything she’d become in spite of him.
She arrived early. Butterflies in her stomach. Her heart steady.
And then she saw him.
Jason.
Talking to one of the investors by the juice bar.
“What are you doing here?” she asked under her breath as she walked past him.
“Networking,” he said with a smug grin. “Some of us still have access to real circles.”
She rolled her eyes. “Trying to sabotage me in front of investors? That’s a new low.”
“You built your little brand on pity and blog posts, Amara. Let’s see how well that sells in a real room.”
She walked away. She had no time for ghosts.
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When her name was called, the room dimmed. Spotlights hit the stage.
Amara took a deep breath. She walked up, heels clicking. The screen lit up behind her.
“Good afternoon,” she began. “My name is Amara Cole, and I built a branding agency from a single laptop, a friend's couch, and a very broken heart.”
There were quiet chuckles. Then silence — the good kind.
“I’ve worked with over twenty brands in six months, turning local hustlers into household names. Why? Because stories sell. And women like me? We have stories worth buying.”
Her final slide showed smiling faces of her clients. Her daughter.
“You don’t need to pity me. Just invest in what I’ve built.”
The applause started slowly. Then swelled.
One of the panelists — a renowned female venture capitalist — stood up.
“That was the boldest, cleanest, and most heartfelt pitch of the day. You have my attention.”
And from the crowd, someone clapped louder than the rest.
Darius.
He hadn’t told her he’d be there. But he was. Standing. Smiling.
Not saving her. Just seeing her.
As she stepped off the stage, she passed Jason, who now stood silent, watching her like a stranger.
“You look good up there,” he murmured.
“That’s because you’re not standing beside me anymore.”
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