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Even Phyllis snorts into her coffee.
Beth’s expression softens only slightly as she looks toward the rest of the room. “And for the record, Cassandra representing banned clients off-book while this poor idiot gathered intel are two very different crimes. Corporate betrayal and moral corruption are not the same trope, sweetheart.”
Cassandra looks stricken, glancing at Jackson for help defending her honor. He doesn’t break eye contact with me as the room’s low mutters now turn into mid-volume chaos at my implications.
Clearing my throat, I draw their attention back to me before I move on. “After these initial findings, I went back to my original question. Why did we need an M&A department?” I pause, pulling up my phone to advance. “ And I found the answer.”
The next slide displays an image of one document. An acquisition letter of intent dated five months ago. The acquiring entity has a name the room recognizes—Morrison Rose, the largest firm in the Pacific Northwest, headquartered in Portland. “Which firm did you come from again, Jackson?” I don’t let him answer. “That’s right! Morrison Rose,” I deadpan.
“The billable hour scrutiny mixed with client witch hunts for improper connections, like Yarrow Inc. … these are not internal housekeeping items. These are due diligence preparations. Someone has been getting this firm ready to be sold.” I look at Jackson directly. “And someone was performing that due diligence under all our noses.”
No one moves as the room settles into silence. Even the HVAC hum suddenly feels too loud. Jackson hasn’t taken his eyes off me throughout this presentation, keeping his face perfectly neutral. I look away first, addressing Mr. Rhodes directly.
“Mr. Rhodes, I don’t believe you knew. You deserved to be informed.”
His face turns ashen, shock evident. His expression tells the room everything. Next to him, Cassandra remains motionless.
Straightening, I advance to the last slide. The room reacts before I can comment. Jackson’s face is not-so-expertly, and yet somewhat artistically, placed on a donkey. It is clean, centered, and labeled simply:
The Rising Star.
The room seems to make a collective choked sound. Not quite a laugh, but something between shock and recognition. Sophia splutters on her coffee, while one of the interns actually snorts. I peer briefly at Jackson, but he does not laugh or show any sign that he notices his face is on a barn animal for all the office to see.
I glance up at the image for a moment, genuinely pleased with my work. As much as I hate to admit it, this slide took more time than the rest of the presentation, but it was worth it.
Outside the closed glass door, Isabella stops mid-wipe, one hand pressed over her mouth as she loses the battle against a laugh at the photo, loudly snorting.
Mr. Rhodes clears his throat sharply, eyeing her.
“Right. Cleaning.” We faintly hear through the glass as she disappears with absolutely no guilt whatsoever.
Looking back at the group, I deliver my closing statement. “While some of you were busy being charmed”—I work to keep my voice even—“this jackass was writing the report that made these acquisition dealings possible.”
I take a breath, preparing myself for the end. “I am sure he is very good at his job. And I am sure this firm will be very interesting to him professionally.”
I make eye contact with the room one last time, savoring the moment.
“I tendered my resignation as of”—I look at my phone to double-check the message automatically sent—“sixty seconds ago, HR has the paperwork. Mr. Rhodes, I trust you know what needs to happen next.”
And without looking back, I walk out.
As I turn the corner, I can see inside the conference room. Jackson is on his feet; he has taken one step toward me, his hand slightly forward as if reaching for me. For one brief second, I think he’s going to follow.
Then Mr. Rhodes says something. The entire room seems to shift at once. People are talking over each other as Cassandra is trying to explain herself. Phyllis is demanding answers about her graphs, and someone is already on speakerphone.
Jackson’s eyes stay locked on mine for a second longer. And then he looks away, toward the mess he helped create.
Through the glass of the conference room door, I see Mr. Rhodes reach for his phone before I have cleared the hallway. I walk towards Isabella, who’s waiting for me with an approving smile and a cup of coffee—the good beans, not the supply closet ones—in a to-go cup. My last one here.
I smile as I grab it. “Thank you for everything.”
“No, Phoenix. Thank you. Give them hell, girl.”
9
PHOENIX
The morning of the barbecue, I wake to bare walls and half-packed boxes. I’ve already moved the majority of the smaller items. This space is shedding itself of me, readying itself for the new occupant.
