Page 10 of You Wish
“Right room,” Liz said. “A little late. In fact, you’re next on the agenda.”
“I’mon the agenda?”
“Youarethe agenda.” Liz gave a too-bright smile, as if saying, “This is the big leagues, please tell me you at least brought a bat.”
“Right.” Georgia cleared her throat and made her way to the nearest open seat. She was about to sit when Liz shook her head and then mouthed,Stand.
Georgia stood.
Liz gestured toward the flatscreen on the far side of the wall, which had the first slide of the presentation Georgia had spent weeks creating. Spreadsheets, projections, possible partnerships, the right photos of smiling kids to pair with the perfect data. It was two years in the making.
This was her shot.
So she’d seen her boss’s penis? So what. First world problems.
“I know you weren’t expecting a full house, but I figured that since the board was together for their quarterly budget meeting we’d add another item on the agenda,” Liz said in an“I’ve got your back, girl”tone. “So without further ado, Georgia, why don’t you walk us through this brilliant idea of yours.”
Her pulse thudded hard in her ears, but she ignored it. Just like she ignored the bead of sweat forming between her boobs.
She looked at her notes and read, “Wishes on Wheels. It’s a project targeted at pairing up with celebrities to help make wishes come true while partnering with another arena of donors. For example, Formula 1 alone accounts for an annual revenue of…”
She looked up to find three of the executives scrolling on their phones and two others looking as bored as white bread.
She wasn’t just losing the room. She’d never gained it.
Georgia put the note cards down and took a deep breath. She didn’t care about the graphs, so why would they?
Make them care.
It’s what one of the nurses had told her when Georgia was handling the role of Connor’s medical advocate. It wasn’t about showing the doctors that you knew your medical jargon. It was about getting the doctors to become invested in her brother. Not his case.
“It’s more than an idea,” she said. “It’s an opportunity. This campaign isn’t about glossy photos or ad space. It’s about visibility in a way that feels alive.” She grabbed the laser pointer, the nerves in her stomach sharpening into resolve. “Imagine: kids who’ve spent years in hospitals and treatment rooms finally getting to meet their heroes. Not through a screen or a signed card—in person. We capture those moments. The joy. The awe. That’s what donors respond to. That’s what makes people care.”
Whitmore tilted her head, expression unreadable. “That sounds like a charity gala with extra steps. More expensive steps.”
Georgia didn’t flinch. “Except instead of ballrooms, it’s the racetrack. It’s fast, exciting, unpredictable—like the kids themselves. We’re not parading them around for sympathy. We’re giving them memories. Real, life-changing ones. And in doing that, we’re giving the foundation a story people want to be part of.”
Whitmore’s brow arched. “You think you can rent out the racetrack?”
“Part of it yes.” She already had an in with the owner of Jane’s husband’s team. All she had to do was sell him on the idea.
“And you’re sure that story won’t turn into a circus? Sick kids, cameras, celebrities—one wrong angle and suddenly it’s exploitation instead of inspiration.”
“I’ve thought of that,” Georgia said quickly. “We control the access. No paparazzi. No cheap shots. Just the kids and the drivers. Small groups, carefully scheduled. We don’t use any images without permission. We focus on the human moments—like a driver kneeling to sign a hat or letting a child sit in the car. That’s what will make the story go everywhere. Not because we spin it, but because it’s real.”
Liz leaned in, telling Georgia with a single look that it was mic-drop time. “And this is where your connections come in?” Liz prompted.
Georgia felt the heat creep into her cheeks but forced herself to stay steady. “I have a personal connection with some of the F1 drivers. I’ve built trust with them. They’ll show up for this. I promise.”
“And what drivers are we talking about?” Whitmore asked.
“To start with, Jake Evans of Nova Racing,” Liz offered.
“You can deliver Jake Evans?” asked Frank, the head of marketing, sounding like a little kid who discovered Santa really did exist. A little spark of determination flickered in her belly. If she could win over Frank, she could win over the whole room.
The only problem was if she could actually get Jake to agree. She wasn’t sure. But she also wasn’t a quitter. She’d do whatever it took to get him to say yes.
“I can. I can also provide a few other drivers, who have partnered with some of our competitors as soon as their contract expires next year.”
