Chapter 10 - The Morning After
The morning sun broke through the clearing clouds over Chicago, casting long, sharp shadows across the concrete and glass of the downtown financial district.
I stood by the window of my office at Northline Strategy, holding a fresh cup of coffee and watching the morning commuter traffic flow along the river below.
My phone rested on the desk, silent for the first time in three days.
The federal oversight committee had formally seized Bellweather’s core architecture logs late last night. Marcus’s board had accepted his immediate, unceremonious resignation at midnight, replacing him with an interim trustee while the federal inquiry into the falsified defense subcontracts proceeded.
The corporate world was already moving on. In Chicago, a fallen CEO was yesterday’s headline before the ink on the morning paper had even dried.
The office door opened quietly.
Mark Chen stepped in, holding a fresh deployment schedule for the Munich implementation.
“Anderson’s legal team just signed off on the revised logistics contract,” Mark said, smiling slightly. “They’re officially expanding our mandate across all European hubs starting next month.”
“Good,” I said, turning away from the window. “Make sure our engineering leads coordinate closely with Richard’s team in Frankfurt.”
“Will do,” Mark paused at the door, hesitating. “How’s Sarah?”
“She’s staying at a hotel downtown for a few days while she sorts through the divorce filings,” I said. “She texted me an hour ago. She’s looking at commercial lease spaces in the West Loop.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “Commercial lease space? What for?”
“She’s opening an interior architecture showroom,” I said, a small smile touching the corners of my mouth. “Turns out she’s spent fifteen years sketching designs and managing high-end residential projects behind the scenes while Marcus was taking credit for everything else.”
“Good for her,” Mark said, nodding approvingly before heading back to the bullpen.
I sat back down at my desk, picking up my tablet to review the morning reports.
The conflict that had started over roasted salmon and a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine was over. Marcus had lost his company, his status, and his marriage, not because of violence or external malice, but because of the quiet, inexorable weight of his own dishonesty.
My phone buzzed on the mahogany surface.
It wasn't a federal agent, and it wasn't Marcus.
It was a text from Sarah: Coffee at ten? My treat. I found a place with cream-colored walls and the best natural light in the city.
May you like
I tapped out a quick reply: I’ll be there in twenty minutes.
Then I locked my screen, grabbed my coat, and walked out the door.
