Chapter 4 - The Face Across the Table
The woman in the executive chair slowly spun around.
Michael’s breath caught in his throat. Even sitting down, he recognized her instantly. It was the blonde, pregnant woman from Route 9—the one he had changed the tire for while freezing in the rain, the exact reason he had arrived forty minutes late to his shift, and the sole catalyst for his termination.
Except now, she wasn't wearing a damp, simple dress. She was dressed in an impeccably tailored designer maternity blazer, her expression a mix of sharp intelligence and profound gravity.
"Hello, Michael," she said, her voice carrying a calm, commanding resonance that instantly filled the massive room.
"You..." Michael stammered, gripping the armrests of his chair. "You’re... you're the woman from the roadside."
"I am," she replied, offering a faint, knowing smile. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Eleanor Morrison, founder and principal majority owner of Morrison Supply Chain Management."
The name hit Michael like a physical blow. Morrison. The entire company carried her family’s legacy, yet she operated quietly, overseeing regional expansions without micro-managing the daily warehouse floors—until she decided to inspect them personally.
Eleanor leaned forward, resting her hands on the polished table. "Two days ago, my car suffered a catastrophic blowout on Route 9. Traffic rushed past me for twenty minutes. Honking, yelling, ignoring a heavily pregnant woman stranded in freezing mist. Then you stopped. You didn't know who I was. You didn't ask for a reward. You just saw someone in need, got your hands dirty, and fixed my car, even though you looked at your watch and knew it would cost you."
Michael lowered his gaze, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I was just doing what anyone should have done. Though... it did cost me my job."
May you like
"I know it did," Eleanor said sharply, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce intensity. She turned her head toward the legal counsel. "Did you bring the internal audit files regarding the regional distribution center?"
The attorney slid a thick leather folder across the mahogany table toward Michael.
