Chapter 3 - The Fallout at Morrison & Associates
Monday morning arrived with the heavy, gray drizzle typical of late autumn in the city. Walking through the front glass doors of Morrison & Associates felt like stepping back into a crime scene, even though the garage had been scrubbed clean over the weekend.
Every head in the open-plan office turned as I walked past the reception desk. My cheek still bore a faint, yellowish bruise beneath my foundation, and my ribs throbbed slightly beneath my blazer, but I kept my shoulders back and my head held high.
Julia rushed over from her cubicle, clutching a fresh cup of coffee and looking ready to burst into tears.
"Andrea! Oh, my God," she whispered, pulling me into a careful, tight hug. "We were all so worried about you. Everyone is talking about what happened. Mr. Morrison wants to see you in his office as soon as you settle in."
My stomach fluttered nervously. Richard Morrison was a senior partner at the firm—a formidable, old-school corporate litigator who tolerated zero drama in his workplace. Fearing that a public, violent family assault happening in his building's executive garage might be viewed as a liability, I swallowed hard and walked down the mahogany-paneled hallway toward his corner office.
I knocked twice and pushed the door open.
Mr. Morrison sat behind his massive oak desk, reading a printed copy of the local police blotter. When he looked up, his stern, piercing eyes softened just a fraction.
"Sit down, Andrea," he commanded, gesturing to the leather chair opposite him.
I sat down, folding my hands neatly in my lap. "Mr. Morrison, I understand if this reflects poorly on the firm, and if you need to take administrative leave or—"
"Stop right there," he interrupted, holding up a hand. He leaned back in his leather chair and let out a long breath. "Julia filled me in on the details, and Detective Morris briefed our building security team on Friday evening. What your father did was horrific, Andrea. And what your mother tried to pull is unforgivable."
He slid a folded document across the desk toward me.
I picked it up and scanned the first few lines. My eyes widened. It was a formal recommendation from Morrison & Associates' senior executive board, endorsing me for the open Senior Risk Analyst position in our corporate compliance division—a promotion I had applied for three months ago, which my father had previously told me I was "too weak" to handle.
"You're a survivor, Andrea," Mr. Morrison said quietly. "You handled a hostile, dangerous situation with incredible composure, and you preserved the evidence that protected yourself and ensured justice. That is the exact definition of risk mitigation. The position is yours, starting today, along with a twenty percent salary increase."
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I stared at the paper, a genuine tear finally escaping my eye—not of sorrow, but of overwhelming victory. "Thank you, Mr. Morrison. You won't regret this."
"I know I won't," he smiled. "Now, go move your things to the sixth floor. You have an office with a window waiting for you."
