Chapter 5 - The Glass TowerThree weeks after the night of the bucket, the executive boardroom on the 62nd floor of Morrison Global Technologies—which was already in the process of being legally rebranded back to its original name, Vance International Enterprises—was quiet, vast, and smelled faintly of expensive Italian leather and fresh coffee.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, glittering under the crisp autumn sunlight. Down below, tiny yellow taxis moved like ants across the grid of the city, completely unaware of the seismic shifts happening high above their heads in the clouds.
I sat at the head of the custom obsidian conference table, wearing a tailored navy maternity blazer that fit impeccably, my hair styled in a sleek, professional chignon. My laptop was open, displaying the real-time asset restructuring reports being handled by Arthur’s firm.
The heavy oak doors of the boardroom clicked open.
Arthur walked in, holding a slim leather folder, followed by a trembling, middle-aged man wearing an ill-fitting discount suit that looked like it had been bought off the rack at a warehouse liquidation sale.
It was Brendan.
Or at least, what was left of him.
Gone were the custom Brioni suits, the platinum Rolex, and the arrogant, cocky smirk that used to grace his face whenever he entered a room. His shoulders were slumped, his hair was unwashed and thinning visibly at the crown, and dark, bruised circles sat heavily beneath his eyes. The federal indictment for corporate embezzlement and vendor kickbacks was moving fast, and without millions of dollars in retained legal counsel—all of which had been blocked by our asset freeze—he was facing a very real, very long prison sentence.
Arthur gestured for Brendan to take a seat at the far end of the long conference table. Brendan sat down slowly, his hands trembling so violently he had to clasp them together in his lap to keep them still.
He didn't look at the view. He didn't look at Arthur. He kept his eyes locked firmly on the polished obsidian surface of the table, staring at his own distorted reflection.
"Mr. Morrison," Arthur began, his voice completely professional, devoid of any personal malice or triumph. "You have been brought here pursuant to the preliminary settlement discussions requested by your court-appointed public defender."
Brendan swallowed hard, his voice coming out as a dry, raspy croak. "Cassidy... please."
I raised my hand slightly, stopping him before he could launch into another pathetic plea.
"Save it, Brendan," I said, my voice calm, even, and utterly detached. "You aren't here to negotiate your romance or your lifestyle. You’re here to sign the paperwork."
Arthur slid a thick stack of stapled documents across the obsidian table, stopping them right in front of Brendan’s shaking hands.
"What... what is this?" Brendan whispered, flipping open the first page.
"It’s your plea cooperation agreement and your permanent non-contest divorce decree," Arthur explained smoothly. "If you sign this document today, admitting fully to your role in the vendor kickback schemes without implicating your mother—thus keeping Diane out of federal penitentiary custody due to her age and health—Chairman Vance will agree to exercise her discretion as majority shareholder."
Brendan’s head snapped up, a pathetic spark of hope flaring in his hollow eyes. "Discretion? What does that mean? Does that mean you’ll drop the charges against me? Does that mean I get my condo back?"
"It means," I interrupted, leaning forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table, "that instead of facing a mandatory twelve-year federal sentence in a maximum-security penitentiary for corporate fraud, Arthur’s legal team will recommend a reduced, white-collar facility plea deal capped at thirty months."
Brendan stared at me as though I had spoken in a foreign language. "Thirty months? Two and a half years in a cage? Cassidy, you can't do that to the father of your child!"
"You are not a father, Brendan," I said softly, my eyes narrowing with quiet fury. "You are a sperm donor who tried to treat my life like a stepping stone and my dignity like a doormat. Thirty months is a gift. It's thirty months to think about what happens when you underestimate a woman who built the ground you walked on."
May you like
He looked down at the papers, his bottom lip trembling. He realized, with crushing, final certainty, that there was no negotiation left. The empire he thought he inherited was mine. The wealth he squandered was mine. The life he took for granted had been built entirely on my grace—grace he had finally exhausted.
With a shaking hand, Brendan picked up a heavy Montblanc pen—ironically, a pen I had bought him for our third anniversary—and signed his name on the dotted line.
