Chapter 3 What a Difference a D Makes
What a Difference a D Makes
A couple of days later, Morgan stepped out of her office building and pulled her collar up. October in Denver and the flakes were already whirling out of the sky. The forecast predicted a couple of inches by morning. She trod carefully over the powdery snow toward Snarf’s Sandwiches.
The sidewalk was busy with office workers, most going north to downtown, where there were more lunch options, but Snarf’s was closest for Morgan. She could get a sandwich and be back at her desk in under fifteen minutes.
She passed Foxies, the bar where she’d met the Australian a few days earlier.
Had she found where Foxies had moved to?
Or, more likely, it seemed the bar had simply closed.
Nothing seemed to have changed—the bar was still dark, still with the stools on the tables.
She reached Snarf’s and stamped her feet on the mat before heading up to the counter to order a small turkey and Swiss, and a cup of tomato soup.
Back in the office, Morgan returned to her cubicle and set down her lunch. Out of habit, she tapped the keyboard to see if there were any messages in the fifteen minutes she’d been gone.
One jumped out at her, or more precisely, the big red Urgent flag next to it. Her boss. She opened it. My office. Now.
Morgan pursed her lips, looked at the cup of soup next to her keyboard.
David’s summons could be good or bad. It could be an important new client he was throwing her way, one that he wanted her to prioritize—at least in the short while.
Or it could be extra reporting he wanted her to take on, or a new staff member to mentor—neither of which she had time for.
She pried the lid off the Styrofoam cup. She’d drink her soup and then go. The sandwich could wait.
She’d managed two sips before the message box at the bottom of her screen flashed again. Now means now.
He must have seen her arrive back. Morgan glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, David was glaring at her through the glass wall of his office. With an internal sigh, she replaced the lid on the cup, pasted a smile on her face, and answered the summons.
“Close the door.” David didn’t get up from his desk. He waved her to the other chair. “I had a call from Amelia Cargill this morning.”
Morgan nodded. One of her more active and hands-on clients—and one of the wealthiest.
“She says you sold shares on her account on Tuesday.”
“That’s right.” Morgan folded her hands in her lap. “She wanted to divest the shares she owned in Walland Industries. She had me do that.”
“Except you didn’t.” David steepled his fingers and leaned forward.
“You divested her shares in Wallan Industries. Wallan without the D. Walland crashed overnight. Wallan is showing steady growth. Amelia has, at a conservative estimate, lost nearly three hundred thousand dollars. She’s threatening to sue. ”
Morgan’s heart froze, and ice threaded her veins to her fingertips.
She was always so careful in any share portfolio, but particularly in Amelia’s, which was considerably larger than average.
Especially in Amelia’s, where some of the investments had similar names.
Always in Amelia’s because she was her biggest client, one Morgan entertained on Amelia’s infrequent visits to Denver, taking her to high-end restaurants on the company dollar—which actually came out of her commission but was still worth it, still oh-so worth it.
Amelia, who gave her lavish gifts at Christmas and thanked Morgan profusely when her advice added to her already considerable wealth.
And now, it seemed, she’d made a huge error. A rookie mistake—careless and sloppy.
Inexcusable. Negligent.
Although… She frowned. “I always double, triple check any transfer. Especially on Amelia’s account.”
“Obviously not this time.”
“But—”
“Don’t suggest the error was our client’s.” David’s voice hardened. “Any error is never our client’s.” He turned his screen so she could see.
There, in glowing pixels was the email Amelia had sent her two days ago.
Automatically, she checked the date and time it was received.
It was Amelia’s email, no question about it.
The email she’d actioned as her final transfer of the day, at nearly eight p.m. After that, she’d left the office, gotten a burrito, and headed home.
David highlighted a section of text, and Morgan’s whole body froze. The email asked her to immediately divest all shares in Walland Industries. Walland with a D.
The error was hers. There was no escaping that.
Yes, she’d been exhausted—tired to the bone from insomnia.
Yes, it had been the final transaction of the day, when she was already thinking about a pulled-pork burrito and a glass of Sangiovese.
Yes, she’d been looking forward to turning the key in the front door of her town house, of relaxing in the professionally designed living area, her peaceful happy place, then sitting at the granite breakfast bar to eat a takeaway burrito in the gourmet kitchen she barely had time to use, before retiring to bed, blinds open so she could admire the peaks of the Front Range through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
One part of her mind had been thinking all those things, but the major part, the important part, had been thinking about Amelia’s portfolio and double- and triple-checking her actions.
As she always did; and she’d never made a mistake.
Except, apparently, this time. She opened her mouth, formulating her apology in her mind.
David watched her. “I don’t want excuses, Morgan. The error was yours. Your employment with Mattingley Financial is terminated, effective immediately.”
Had she heard him correctly? She’d worked here for seven years, long hours, hard hours, building up to being one of the leading financial advisors, a partnership in her sights.
And now, with one error, one mistake, the first she’d ever made, she was terminated like a junior advisor at the end of probation.
“David, this is—”
He stood. “I’m sorry, Morgan, but my hands are tied. Amelia is incandescent with rage and insists you be fired immediately.”
He picked up his desk phone. “Savannah, can you arrange for Ms. Favola to turn in her security cards and clear out her desk, and for someone to escort her from the premises.”
The room spun, and she rested her head in her hands. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and she blinked fiercely. She would not show weakness. She took a deep breath, willing away the dizziness.
When it had passed, she raised her head again. “I don’t need an escort.” She lifted the lanyard with card and keys attached from around her neck and laid it on David’s desk. “I’ll clear my desk now and leave.”
“I’m sorry, Morgan. For security reasons, I’m obliged to have you escorted off the premises.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Her cubicle was off to one side of the main floor, a larger area as befitted her senior position, but it was still public enough that everyone—from the senior partners to the newest intern—would see her walk of shame.
See her carrying a box of her personal possessions as the security guard escorted her out of the building.
To her knowledge, this had only happened two or three times in the seven years she’d been working at Mattingley.
Savannah must have been waiting for David’s call; only a minute later, she arrived along with a security guard.
“The cards are there.” Morgan pointed to where they lay on David’s desk.
“Thank you, Ms. Favola.” Savannah handed her a sealed envelope. “This contains your final paycheck. You are paid up until the end of today, along with the three weeks of annual leave you accrued.”
Three weeks. She’d barely taken much annual leave in her time with Mattingley, not wanting to leave her clients in the care of another advisor for too long.
A few days here and there in seven years.
Never longer than one week at any one time.
She’d never had three weeks at once. Well, it looked like she was getting it now.
She schooled her face to an impassive mask and held out her hand to David. “Goodbye, David. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
His palm glanced off hers. “You too, Morgan. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it ended like this.”
She nodded, then turned for the door and strode to her desk, trailed by Savannah and the security guard.
Ignoring the curious stares from the surrounding desks, she took the archive box Savannah proffered and systematically went through her desk drawers, taking only her personal items: keys, purse, a desk calendar, the fountain pen her parents had given her when she’d gotten the job at Mattingley.
She didn’t touch as much as a pen or pad of Post-It notes.
She didn’t want a charge of theft on top of her firing.
She picked up the frame containing photos of her last vacation—five days in Paris in the springtime. How clichéd was that. Well, she wouldn’t be going back to Europe anytime soon.
“That’s everything.” She faced Savannah. “Let’s go.”
With Savannah ahead and the security guard behind, Morgan raised her chin and strode through the office. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a few shocked faces—but even more calculating ones, no doubt wondering if they could position themselves to take over her accounts.
Manuela stepped forward and put her hand on Morgan’s arm. “Morgan, I don’t know what happened, but I’m so sorry. Call me.”
She managed a smile. “I will.” Whether she actually would was up in the air. First, though, she had to get out of the office with her dignity intact.