Chapter 4 - The Monday Morning Shift
At 7:45 AM on Monday morning, Carter took the subway to Midtown as he had done every day for over a decade.
He wore his customary charcoal suit, his scuffed black leather shoes, and carried a worn canvas briefcase. Nothing about his physical appearance had changed.
Yet the moment he stepped through the brass revolving doors of Blackthorne Tower, the entire building shifted on its axis.
The lobby security guards, who had barely glanced at his badge for eleven years, snapped to attention.
"Good morning, Mr. Hayes!" the lead officer barked, holding open the VIP elevator turnstile with a wide, toothy grin. "Terrible wind outside today, sir. Let me press forty-four for you."
Carter blinked, stepping through the gate. "Thank you, Frank."
"Anytime, Mr. Hayes! Pleasure to have you with us!"
When the elevator doors slid open on the forty-fourth floor, the quiet hum of the open-plan accounting bullpen stopped dead.
Heads popped up over felt cubicle dividers like prairie dogs. Clerks, analysts, and senior managers froze mid-sentence, their eyes tracking Carter’s every step down the carpeted corridor.
Sitting at the central reception desk was Derek Moss.
Derek looked as if he hadn't slept in seventy-two hours. His collar was crooked, dark purple bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes, and a half-empty cardboard coffee cup trembled in his right hand.
When Carter approached, Derek stood up so fast his desk chair rolled backward into a filing cabinet with a loud clang.
"Carter!" Derek stammered, his voice jumping an octave before he cleared his throat. "Good morning! Great morning, actually! Beautiful weather, isn't it?"
"It's twenty-six degrees and raining, Derek," Carter replied evenly, stopping at the edge of his cubicle.
"Right! Invigorating! Good for the circulation!" Derek laughed nervously, wiping sweat from his forehead with a crumpled napkin.
Derek glanced frantically down the hall toward the executive wing before stepping closer, his voice dropping into a desperate, trembling whisper.
"Listen, Carter... about Friday night at the Plaza... I was drunk. Completely out of line. You know I have the utmost respect for your privacy, right? Total respect. I was just blowing off steam after a tough quarter."
Carter looked at him. For six years, Derek had made subtle, cruel comments about Carter’s lunch containers, his lack of vacations, and his empty ring finger.
He had watched Derek humiliate junior associates, steal credit for logistics optimizations Carter had authored, and kiss the rings of senior partners while kicking everyone below him.
"You asked me if I was planning to die alone, Derek," Carter said, his voice flat, devoid of anger or satisfaction.
"It was a joke! A horrible, stupid joke!" Derek pleaded, his hands shaking. "Please, Carter. Mr. Blackthorne called me into his office at seven this morning. He said if Sinclair Capital pulls out of the bridge loan because of employee friction, my entire division will be terminated without severance."
Before Carter could respond, the heavy frosted-glass doors of the corner suite swung open.
Richard Blackthorne himself walked out into the bullpen, flanked by two corporate vice presidents and the chief operating officer.
Richard didn't look at Derek. He walked directly to Carter’s cramped cubicle, his silver hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"Carter, my boy!" Richard announced, loud enough for all sixty employees in the bullpen to hear every syllable. "What are you doing sitting out here among the interns? Your belongings have already been transferred."
May you like
Carter frowned slightly. "Transferred where, Mr. Blackthorne?"
"To the corner suite on forty-eight, of course," Richard beamed, throwing a heavy, paternal arm around Carter's shoulder. "As the newly appointed Executive Director of Strategic Acquisitions, you can't be working out of a cubicle. Vivian expects you in her office at eleven to review the merger framework."
