Chapter 14: The Pitch

It had been a whirlwind few weeks. The pitch packet was polished, the storyboards laminated, and a small, glitter-covered diorama of the film's main house—complete with windows, robbers, and tiny paint cans—sat in the centre of the dining table like a shrine to childhood mischief. It was time.

Rishi had finally secured a meeting through John Hughes' old contact: a boutique film investor named Brenda Lasker. Known for backing quirky indie comedies with just enough heart to go viral, Brenda was the kind of person who loved a risk if it made her laugh—and cry—in equal measure.

The night before the meeting, Ayaan barely touched dinner. He paced in circles while Zoey sat cross-legged on the floor, refining the final colours on their newest character sketches.

"I don't think she's going to like it," Ayaan said, chewing his thumbnail. "She'll think it's stupid."

Zoey didn't look up. "Then she's not our audience."

He paused. "What if I mess up?"

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

She finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "You memorized the whole pitch, designed the booby traps, built an entire house out of cardboard, and taught me how to say 'movie magic' in Hindi."

"Filmi jaadoo," he muttered automatically.

Zoey smirked. "Exactly. You've got this."

---

The next morning, the small conference room at Brenda's production company felt both too big and too tight. The lights buzzed overhead. Ayaan sat beside Rishi; a leather folio clutched in his lap. Zoey stood behind them, holding the diorama as if it were made of glass.

Brenda Lasker entered the room like she owned the universe—or at least its licensing rights. She wore a bold red jacket, bright earrings, and the kind of heels that made even Rishi sit up straighter.

"Malhotra," she said, offering a firm handshake. "And this must be the creative cavalry."

"This is my son, Ayaan. And our concept artist, Zoey."

Brenda gave them a once-over. "You've got some nerve bringing kids into a pitch."

Ayaan opened his mouth—but Rishi placed a calming hand on his back. "We figured you'd rather see the heart of the story than just hear about it."

Brenda raised a brow. "Alright then. Show me."

Ayaan inhaled sharply. "It's called Left Behind. A Christmas comedy about a kid accidentally left home alone while his family flies overseas. Two burglars break in, thinking it'll be an easy score—but the kid outsmarts them using toys, house traps, and sheer guts."

"Cute," Brenda said. "What's new about it?"

Ayaan stood and gestured to the diorama. "Everything. This isn't about a perfect hero. He's scared. He's sad. But he finds strength in being underestimated."

He pointed to one side of the tiny house. "This is where he makes a trap out of roller skates."

Zoey rotated the model so Brenda could see the stairs.

"And this is the marbles-on-the-floor gag," Ayaan added. "Classic physical comedy—but grounded."

He paused, then added, "And at night, he sings to himself. Not a lullaby—an old song. It reminds him he's not really alone."

Rishi jumped in. "A small creative touch. Emotional."

"And original," Zoey added. "Not just traps. There's heart."

Brenda leaned back, fingers steepled. "You wrote all this?"

"We adapted a story John Hughes shelved years ago," Rishi said. "We have his blessing. He's even open to co-producing."

Brenda whistled. "Hughes? I thought he vanished."

"He saw something in it," Rishi replied. "We all did."

There was a long pause. Brenda stared at the diorama. Then, at Ayaan.

"You want to star in this?"

"Yes," Ayaan said without flinching. "But not because I want to be famous. I want to tell the story. I believe in it."

Zoey stepped forward and placed a small drawing in front of Brenda—an illustrated frame of the movie's final moment: the boy, alone in a glowing house, watching the snow fall outside, peaceful for the first time.

Brenda drummed her fingers on the table. "So what makes you think that'll actually work on screen?"

Ayaan brightened. "We filmed something. Just a scene. Zoey shot it."

Zoey immediately stepped forward with an old camcorder and a USB stick. "It's rough, but... it shows the spirit."

Brenda crossed her arms. "Roll it."

They plugged it into the flat screen mounted on the wall. The screen flickered—then came to life.

A hallway. Dim Christmas lights. The camera jostled slightly, amateur but full of heart.

Ayaan peeked around a corner, whispering: "If they want war... they've got it."

Cue fast cuts: toy cars spilt across the floor—a water bucket tied to a door. A swing arm slapping a stuffed Santa off a shelf. A burst of holiday music underlines each chaotic beat.

Then, Ayaan—playing the main character—runs barefoot through the house, paint on his cheeks like war paint, whispering (I'm alone, but I won't give up.)

Zoey had even added a flash of falling snow at the window—glitter dropped in front of a desk lamp, filmed in slow motion.

When the clip ended, the room was quiet.

Brenda leaned back in her chair. "Okay... that was kind of brilliant."

She looked between the three of them, then said, "I'm not saying yes yet. But I want a full test reel. Shoot me five more minutes. Show me what this kid can do. Then we'll talk."

Ayaan's eyes lit up. "We can do that."

"You've got two weeks," she said. "Don't waste it."

---

Back at home, the moment they closed the door, Ayaan whooped. Zoey tossed a handful of crayons in the air like confetti.

Rishi exhaled. "We're in."

"Not all the way," Zoey reminded them. "But halfway's pretty good."

Ayaan grinned. "We'd better get to work."

He turned to Zoey and pointed toward their bedroom, now transformed into a studio. "We need storyboards, fake snow, and a BB gun."

Zoey raised an eyebrow. "Why do I feel like I just signed up for war?"

"Because we have," Ayaan said with a gleam.

Not the war of grief or failure—but the war of storytelling.

And for once, they were winning.

End of Chapter 14