FYI: I Outpitched You Ch. 21
FYI: I Outpitched You Ch. 21
Thursday – Final Challenge Week
Callie walked into the Catalyst-Breacon shared HQ like a storm in heels.
No hesitation. No apology. Just steel in her spine and a mission in her eyes.
“Morning,” she said, placing her bag on the table.
The Catalyst team was already gathered, sipping lukewarm coffee and scrolling through their phones. Conversation faded the moment she entered.
“We’ve got a problem,” Callie said simply. “Major files were deleted from my system sometime yesterday. Strategy notes. Mood boards. Key visuals. Everything that was meant to lead us into filming.”
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room. Elise’s brows lifted just enough to look surprised—but not too surprised.
“What do you mean deleted?” one of the junior designers asked.
“Gone,” Callie said. “Not misplaced. Not misfiled. Wiped.”
Elise tilted her head. “That’s… awful. Could it have been a system glitch?”
“Maybe,” Callie said, voice calm. “But we don’t have time to figure that out right now. What matters is we need to act fast. So—if anyone here saved any parts of our original plan—mockups, emails, even sketches—bring them forward.”
Elise glanced around, then gave a small sigh and raised her hand. “Actually… I might have a few files. Just rough pieces. But enough to rebuild something, maybe.”
Callie nodded slowly. “Perfect. Send what you have to the group drive. We’ll rebuild from there.”
As the team buzzed into action, Callie pretended to focus on her notes—but she felt Elise watching her. A little too smug. A little too satisfied.
Three weeks ago, Elise had asked for admin access “for workflow efficiency.” Callie hadn’t questioned it. She did now.
Callie kept her expression neutral.
Because Elise didn’t know the truth.
Didn’t know that the real campaign—the one that mattered—had already been submitted.
\---
Across the workspace, Peyton fidgeted behind her screen, sneaking glances at Miles, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she walked in.
Finally, he stood and crossed to her table.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice low.
She blinked, wide-eyed. “Now?”
“Preferably before I start pulling security logs and submission reports.”
She stood, clutching her tablet like a shield. “I’m not sure what I’m allowed to say.”
Miles narrowed his gaze. “You submitted something to VitaRush. On my behalf. I’m the temporary team lead this week. I didn’t approve it.”
She pressed her lips together, clearly torn.
Before she could answer, Callie appeared.
“Break time,” she said lightly, looping her arm through Peyton’s. “Come on. Let’s walk.”
Peyton didn’t argue. She let herself be led away, and Miles didn’t follow. But his eyes lingered.
Outside, the air was thick and still.
“You promised it wouldn’t look like sabotage,” Peyton whispered.
“It isn’t,” Callie replied. “It’s strategy.”
“He’s going to hate me.”
Callie shook her head. “Not hate. Distrust, maybe. But I’m working on the part where he forgives you.”
\---
By mid-morning, the Catalyst team was in full crisis-recovery mode. Elise led the charge, passing out updated files, reassigning roles, and positioning herself as the team’s savior.
Callie let her.
She clapped when Elise proposed reusing some of their earlier ideas. She nodded when someone praised Elise’s organization. She smiled when Elise said, “At least we won’t go down without a fight.”
Inside, Callie was ice.
She didn’t trust anyone. Not until she could be sure.
Not since Breacon’s last campaign imploded—two junior leads fired, one NDA violation, and Callie barely keeping her role intact.
That kind of fallout teaches you not to flinch, not to forgive.
\---
At the Breacon side of the workspace, Miles was quiet—too quiet.
Peyton sat across from him, typing rapidly, trying not to look guilty.
Finally, he leaned toward her. “The campaign we submitted… it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t what I built.”
Peyton froze.
“I know you can’t say much,” he added. “But I’m not stupid. Something happened. Something’s off.”
Still, Peyton said nothing.
So Miles turned back to his screen.
He didn’t understand what Callie was doing, but he trusted her instincts. Even if it made him feel like a pawn in someone else’s game.
\---
That afternoon, as production scheduling was being finalized for commercial shoots, the office buzz shifted again.
Tabitha arrived.
She was all confidence and designer edge, clipboard in hand, red-lacquered heels clicking with purpose.
“Don’t mind me,” she said breezily. “Just observing the teams before we lock in studio bookings.”
She sauntered through the room, making small talk with interns, nodding at senior leads.
When she reached Miles’s desk, she stopped.
“You’re looking sharp,” she said, leaning in. “You know, we really should catch up sometime soon. Grab a drink, talk about… old times.”
Miles didn’t even blink. “I’ll let you know when I’m free.”
Her smile twitched. Not quite the reaction she was expecting.
Callie watched from across the room. Her eyes narrowed, but her expression didn’t betray anything.
She’d always known Tabitha would show up eventually.
What she didn’t know was whose side Tabitha was really on.
Tabitha moved on.
The moment she disappeared into the hallway, Callie grabbed her phone and opened a new message.
To: Miles
Subject: Meet me
Message:
Tonight. 9PM.
Address below.
We need to talk.
– Callie
She hit send.
She stared at the screen for a moment longer.
9PM wouldn’t be about cleanup. It would be about truth. About choosing sides.
Because whatever happened next, they couldn’t afford secrets anymore.
Not if they wanted to win.
Not if they wanted to survive.
\---
Callie’s townhouse was quiet when she got home.
Too quiet.
She kicked off her shoes, tossed her bag on the couch, and stared at the clock. 8:07PM.
The meeting was in less than an hour.
She had half a bottle of wine in the fridge. A candle burning low in the entryway. And a pit in her stomach that had nothing to do with strategy.
She paced to the kitchen. Back to the living room. Then back again.
She’d told herself this was tactical—control the setting, guide the conversation, land the pivot.
But it wasn’t just that.
It was Miles.
They’d met as freshmen in the Whitfield media program—two ambitious kids with too many ideas and not enough sleep. She could still picture the photo pinned to her fridge: them grinning outside the lab, Miles balancing a burrito in one hand and his camera in the other.
She used to call it his “creative balance.”
Back then, they’d teased each other through pitches, laughed off rejections, and survived group projects powered solely by vending-machine granola bars and stubborn optimism.
Now, here they were—older, sharper, and caught in something neither of them had fully signed up for.
She opened her phone. Checked the message again.
9PM. You coming?
The text sat there like a loaded weapon.
She dropped the phone facedown and exhaled.
It wasn’t just about winning anymore. It was about trust. About what you risk when you ask someone to choose you—not just the goal.
Outside, thunder rolled low in the distance. The July sky was bruised with deep purple clouds, streetlights blinking against the wind.
She lit another candle.
Set out two glasses.
And waited.