Chapter One #2
Roger let out a relieved sigh and stretched to fish out a banana nut muffin. “Oh, thank goodness. Remember when you gave the whole art department food poisoning with those ‘special’ brownies?”
She straightened. “That’s what the recipe on Pinterest called them. And the magic ingredient was—”
“Salmonella,” Roger finished with a chuckle.
She didn’t have time to defend herself, because Sylvia Masters, Morsel’s editor and Cora’s boss, cleared her throat at the head of the table. “All right people, let’s get started.”
Cora’s heart pounded so hard she was convinced everyone could hear it over the hum of the AC.
This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for.
Months of late nights, poring over endless stacks of spreadsheets, tweaking every prediction until it was razor sharp.
She’d even forced Brad, her ex, to sit through a forecast marathon at her place one night instead of actually leaving the apartment for their date.
But he’d seemed interested, so she’d kept talking.
Maybe that’s why he’d ghosted her after dating for two months.
Still, it had been worth it. Sylvia had praised her work all along.
“We wouldn’t be able to do it without you,” she’d said more than once.
Cora only hoped the promotion would come with a raise, because living on takeout was starting to put a serious dent in her bank account.
Her personal financial spreadsheet was coming dangerously close to setting off warning flares.
As she smoothed her black pencil skirt and sat a little straighter, the tension in the room thickened.
No surprise there, considering how high-stakes this was.
The annual food trend forecast was Morsel’s most important issue of the year.
Restaurants and brands across the country depended on it.
Menus changed, new locations opened or closed.
When Sylvia had handpicked Cora to lead the research team, it was a dream come true.
A real chance to prove herself since leaving Sunrise, North Carolina, fifteen years ago.
Sylvia tapped her pen against the table, her lips twisting into a scowl.
“Today was supposed to be a celebration,” she began, her voice tight.
“Industry insiders rely on Morsel for our forecasting expertise. They trust us to give them the data they need to make informed decisions that wow their customers.” The pen stilled on the table.
“But late last night, mere hours before our editorial meeting, Food Trends Monthly dropped their annual trend issue . . . and it reads exactly like the forecast we were going to send to press tonight!”
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
After a long, tense pause, a woman from accounting leaned forward, her hands flat on the table. “So, what do we do now?”
Sylvia’s sharp gaze swept across the room.
“Legal has called an emergency meeting in thirty minutes. We need to assess the damage and figure out our response.” She paused again, and this time her eyes locked on Cora for a moment too long.
“Prepare yourselves. We can’t afford to be second in this industry.
Advertisers are already threatening to pull out.
As of right now, we’re in crisis mode. Don’t plan on seeing your families anytime soon. ”
A chill ran down Cora’s spine. Could her forecast have been leaked? As the team shuffled out, murmuring in hushed tones, Sylvia’s voice sliced through the noise.
“Cora,” she said. “I need to see you in my office. Now.”
Cora stepped into Sylvia’s office, her legs shaky beneath her. As soon as she crossed the threshold, a memory hit her. Her first day at Morsel, nine years ago.
“Welcome aboard, Cora,” Sylvia had said, her smile warm and encouraging. “I have a feeling you’re going to do great things here.”
She barely had time to blink before the warmth of that first day was replaced by the ice in her boss’s voice.
“Close the door,” Sylvia ordered.
Cora did as instructed. Based on Sylvia’s scowl, she’d gone from rising star to falling meteor in less time than it took to burn toast. The wall clock ticked louder with each second, counting down to what felt like a professional execution. Cora swallowed.
Her boss’s voice cut through the silence. “I expected better of you, Cora. Your negligence has cost us dearly.”
Cora stiffened. “My . . . negligence?”
Sylvia slapped down a copy of Food Trends Monthly on her desk. “I trusted you,” Sylvia said, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. “I didn’t just hire you; I mentored you. I handpicked you from business school because I saw your potential.”
Sylvia’s words hit hard. Only a few weeks ago, she’d been handing out praise. Outstanding work on this section, Cora. Your attention to detail is exactly why I put you on this project. That acclaim, once a source of pride, now tasted like rotten lemons.
“I don’t understand,” Cora said. “What does this have to do with me?”
Before Sylvia answered, there was a knock at the door. The director of human resources walked in, placed a folder on Sylvia’s desk, and left without even glancing in Cora’s direction.
Sylvia opened the folder, her eyes skimming the pages before she nodded to herself. “You signed a non-disclosure agreement on your first day at Morsel.”
Cora nodded, confused. “Yes, but I still don’t see what—”
She shoved the magazine across her desk toward Cora, her finger tapping the byline. “Are you going to deny knowing Alex Jameson?”
“Of course not,” Cora said. “I read his work regularly.”
Alex was her so-called rival over at Food Trends Monthly, a lackluster forecaster with ideas so far off the mark they were laughable. But she’d never met him in person.
“So you admit to having an intimate relationship and sharing proprietary information with him?”
“An intimate . . . what? No.” Cora stared at her in disbelief. “I’ve never met the man.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure about that? Maybe at a social event?” She tapped the photo beneath the byline.
Cora leaned in, and her stomach dropped as she saw a familiar face grinning back at her. Brad. Her ex-boyfriend. Or, rather, not Brad.
She blinked. “Wait. That’s him? Alex Jameson?
” She hadn’t seen a photo of him since they broke up, and certainly not in a food magazine.
Food trend forecasters didn’t usually get the celebrity treatment.
No one pinned posters of them to their bedroom walls.
Their names might trend. Their faces? Not so much.
Her head spun. Why was Brad, who had claimed he didn’t even know what a Michelin star was, in a competitor’s magazine touting her forecast?
Brad, who had pretended to listen while she ranted about Himalayan salt and listed the virtues of mood-enhancing microgreens.
Brad, who she’d thought was just a guy who liked takeout as much as she did.
Sure, she’d never been to his apartment, but she’d just assumed it was because hers was nicer.
Or cleaner. Or had a better selection of delivery menus.
It had crossed her mind that maybe he was married, because he always wanted to meet at her place and seemed fine staying in with takeout instead of going to a restaurant.
When she’d asked him about it, he’d told her he just preferred to be a homebody.
And that was fine with Cora. Food trend forecasters weren’t exactly a social bunch.
They didn’t get wined and dined like the travel or fashion reporters.
The closest thing to a fancy event she had attended was an overly competitive tasting of brownies made with grasshopper flour at the farmer’s market.
Cora let out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you call being dumped by a man who lied to you an intimate relationship? The most intimate thing we did was share a pizza. He took the last slice, by the way, which should have been a red flag. And he said his name was Brad.”
Sylvia’s face remained hard. “Whatever you called him, you shared confidential information with him, and now we’re facing the consequences.”
Cora leaned forward, desperation creeping into her voice. “I didn’t know he was Alex Jameson. I certainly didn’t know he worked for Food Trends Monthly. He told me he was a software developer.”
“No excuses,” Sylvia snapped. “This disaster happened on your watch, and now Morsel is facing a major scandal. We’ll be lucky if the magazine survives it.”
Cora opened her mouth to protest, but Sylvia silenced her with a raised hand. “There’s nothing to explain. You’re being placed on indefinite unpaid leave, pending an investigation by our legal team. In simple terms, you’re fired. HR will be in touch about the final arrangements.”
Final arrangements. As if she was a corpse, not a person who had poured years into this job. Cora’s heart sank, and she struggled to catch her breath. Everything she’d sacrificed—her personal life, her relationships, her identity—were all being ripped away in an instant.
“Sylvia, please,” Cora began.
But her boss’s icy stare shut her down. There would be no second chances. She was done.
Fighting back tears, Cora turned and walked out of the office, the weight of her colleagues’ stares heavy on her shoulders. She kept her chin high, even as whispers followed in her wake.
“Cora?” Roger’s voice broke through the haze. He looked at her with wide-eyed concern, holding out a muffin as if it would fix everything.
She took it, though her appetite was long gone.
Vanessa stood behind the reception desk, hand over her mouth in shock.
Keith from HR approached and gripped her elbow. “I’ll walk you out.”
As they left the office, she felt the eyes of her now-former coworkers on her. Some pretended not to notice, suddenly engrossed in their computer screens. Others offered sympathetic looks that only deepened the hollow ache in her chest.
Keith didn’t stop at her desk. “Your personal items will be packed and sent to you later,” he said.
She briefly considered pocketing a stapler for the road but decided against it. With her luck, she’d trip and impale herself on it.
Moments later, they stood in the elevator. He swiped his security card, ensuring a direct ride to the lobby. The descent was endless, her mind spinning through shock, anger, and humiliation.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the bustling lobby.
Keith gave her a curt nod. “Take care, Cora.”
She stepped out, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
The bright summer morning outside felt like a cruel joke compared to the storm swirling inside her.
She stumbled to a nearby bench and, finally, the tears fell.
As Cora cried, people hurried past on the sidewalk, oblivious to the fact that her entire life had just gone up in flames. Again.