Chapter 3 - The Corporate Inquest
By 8:00 AM on Monday, the sleek, minimalist conference room on the top floor of Morrison Dynamics looked less like a corporate strategy room and more like a federal interrogation bunker.
I sat at the head of the massive glass table, my shirtsleeves rolled up, my fingers steepled in front of my face. Spread out across the glass in front of me were employment records, bank statements, psychological evaluations, and Evelyn Vance’s complete employment file.
Seated across from me were three people: Marcus Vance, my ruthless chief legal counsel; Sarah Jenkins, head of human resources; and Annie Reed, who sat quietly in the corner wearing a sharp, professional navy-blue blazer over her blouse—her new uniform as head of domestic operations.
“Ethan, I’ve reviewed the diary entries and the security timeline Annie recovered,” Marcus said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a grim expression. “If half of what’s written in here is legally corroborated by forensic audio analysis of the nursery mics, Evelyn Vance is looking at multiple felony counts of child endangerment, intentional infliction of emotional distress, and workplace fraud.”
“I don’t want her looking at charges, Marcus,” I said coldly, my voice cutting through the sterile room like a razor blade. “I want her systematically destroyed. I want her blacklisted from every domestic placement agency in North America, I want her assets frozen under civil litigation for breach of contract, and I want her served with a federal injunction before she finishes eating her breakfast this morning.”
Sarah Jenkins swallowed hard, tapping nervously on her tablet. “Mr. Morrison, standard protocol usually dictates a quiet settlement with an NDA to avoid public media scrutiny—especially given your company’s upcoming IPO next quarter—”
“I don't give a damn about the IPO, Sarah,” I snapped, slamming my hand onto the glass table. The sharp crack made both Marcus and Sarah jump. “My company can survive a bad quarter. My sons almost didn't survive fourteen months of psychological torture under my own roof because you couldn't be bothered to run a psychological screening deeper than a LinkedIn profile!”
Sarah turned pale, nodding rapidly. “Understood, Mr. Morrison. I’ll dispatch our private investigators to her last known address immediately.”
“Good,” I said, leaning back in my leather chair and turning my attention to Annie. “Annie, how are the boys?”
Annie offered a reassuring, gentle smile. “They’re eating breakfast, Mr. Morrison. Real breakfast—pancakes and fresh fruit, not the cold cereal Evelyn used to throw at them. They’re still jumpy, and they asked three times this morning if I was going to disappear like the others, but... they’re smiling. Both of them.”
A heavy, aching knot in my chest loosened just a fraction.
“Thank you, Annie,” I murmured, my voice losing its corporate edge. “Keep them secure. I’m heading back to the house by noon.”
Before Marcus could brief me on the afternoon’s venture capital calls, my private desk phone buzzed. It wasn't an internal extension. It was a secure, encrypted line linked directly to the gatehouse intercom at my estate in Greenwich.
I pressed speakerphone.
“Mr. Morrison?” the automated gate voice crackled, followed immediately by the gruff, panicked tone of our estate security guard, Jenkins. “Mr. Morrison, you need to see this on the outer perimeter monitors right now. We have an unannounced visitor at the main gates.”
“Who is it, Jenkins? Deliveries don't arrive on Mondays,” I replied, frowning.
“It’s not a delivery, sir,” Jenkins stammered. “It’s... it’s Mrs. Vance’s legal counsel. Accompanied by a local TV news van from Channel 4 News. They’re claiming your household illegally detained a former employee and stole personal property.”
Silence dropped over the glass conference room like a lead weight.
Marcus Vance cursed under his breath. “She’s preempting us. She must have realized the diary was missing and went straight to the tabloids to spin a narrative of a vengeful, unhinged tech billionaire harassing a helpless caretaker.”
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I stood up slowly from my chair, buttoning my suit jacket with deliberate, icy calm.
“Let her spin whatever narrative she wants,” I said, my eyes locking onto Marcus with lethal clarity. “Call the press corps back. Tell Channel 4 News that Ethan Morrison is inviting them onto his estate for an exclusive live interview—right in front of the nursery.”
