By the time she arrived at the office, Morgan had coached herself to calm down. But each unrequited call to Darren – four more in the course of changing clothes and driving into work – had only added to her anxiety.
Power-walking the corporate halls, Morgan tried to convince herself that people weren’t staring at her, that this, too, was a figment of her own insecurity born of a disorienting, routine-exploding morning that had now bled into the early afternoon.
But the fact was, they were staring.
Morgan only quickened her heel-clicking, military-like pace and fixed her eyes straight ahead. She reached her corridor, where around the corner the familiar site of Darren holding down the fort right outside her office had always managed to comfort her.
But when she rounded the corner this time, an overweight, middle-aged, officious-looking woman was anchoring Darren’s desk, instead.
This was the absolute last shock to the system that Morgan could tolerate this day. She marched up to the woman and demanded answers.
“Where’s Darren?”
The pudgy woman peered at Morgan over her half-glasses and frowned.
“Who might I say is inquiring?” she snipped.
“You might say that I am Morgan Chase. You might say that this is my office you’re sitting in front of. You might say that I want to know where my assistant is, and you might say that I want to know that information right now.”
“Ms. Chase,” the woman repeated.
“Yes. Now can you please tell me what’s going on?”
“No,” the woman said, then read the increase in Morgan’s rage and quickly corrected herself. “I mean, I can’t. They called me in at the very last minute. I’m merely here answering the phones and taking messages.”
“Okay, let’s start there. Any messages from Darren Spencer, my assistant? The person who usually sits right there and who never misses a minute without talking to me first?”
“No,” the woman chirped. “No messages given to me, at least.”
“When they called you to fill in, did they say anything about where Darren was?”
“Not to me. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know anything?”
“My only instructions were to answer your phones, take messages, greet you when you came in, and ask you to wait in your office until Mr. Linden returns from a meeting. He’s scheduled back at 3:30. He wants to meet with you privately, I believe.”
“Impossible,” Morgan retorted. “I have a major client meeting to prepare for. Besides, I just saw Hal last night.”
“He was very specific,” the woman added. “Specific. And very direct.”
Morgan narrowed her eyes. Nothing added up.
“This meeting he’s at. What can you tell me about it?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” she answered. “I got the impression that it was important – and hastily called. People were running around here like chickens, as it were.”
“Here?” Morgan pressed. “Running around here?”
This time, she didn’t wait for another unhelpful answer from the useless fill-in. Instead, Morgan turned and burst into her office. This was her domain, her bastion of productivity and promise.
She flicked on the lights. Her eyes scanned the room. She knew right where to focus from months of habit and ritual. And it was gone. All of it was gone.
Morgan’s heart pounded, and her stomach dropped.
Her personal laptop and all of her files pertaining to Project Renaissance had been removed from her office – her jealously guarded zone of personal space.
Morgan zipped around and dashed back to the woman, who wore a look of fear and dread against Morgan’s onslaught.
“Where?” Morgan shouted. “Where is Linden’s meeting?”
The woman cowered, lowering her head and pulling her arms protectively against her own body.
“I don’t know, Ms. Chase,” she squeaked. “All I was told is that you were to wait here until Mr. Linden returns.”
This wasn’t good enough. Not nearly good enough.
Morgan dashed to the offices of other key staffers on Project Renaissance, only to find them empty and their assistants equally unhelpful. After her manic rounds through the corridor, Morgan retreated to her own office.
She slammed the door, slumped in her chair, and once again phoned Darren Spencer.
She knew then that Hal Linden couldn’t have done this without him. He couldn’t have stolen away Project Renaissance without Darren’s complicit involvement. She wondered if the whole damned thing was a set up. Had last night simply been a seduction so Hal Linden could control the fruits of two years of Morgan’s blood, sweat and tears?
Morgan pressed the icon on her phone for Darren. It immediately dumped her call into voicemail. And that was a good word for it, wasn’t it.
Morgan had been dumped. Duped and dumped by Darren Spencer. Played for a fool and deceived by Hal Linden. And unceremoniously dumped in the trash by her own company.
She sat and seethed for each and every interminable second until Hal Linden waltzed into her office later that afternoon as if nothing at all had happened.