Chapter 3 - THE MONDAY MORNING MASSACRE
Valerie arrived at Whitmore Publishing at 8:45 a.m. on Monday, wearing a triumphant smirk and a tailored Chanel suit paid for by my credit card. I watched from the glass walls of my corner office overlooking the lobby. She marched up to the security turnstiles, expecting the path to clear for the new CEO. She swiped her key card. The machine flashed red. She frowned, swiping it again. Red. "Excuse me," she snapped at the security guard, a man I had personally hired a decade ago. "My card is malfunctioning." The guard stepped out from behind his desk, flanked by two other officers. "It’s not malfunctioning, Ms. Sullivan," he said evenly. "Your access has been revoked. I have instructions to escort you off the premises." Valerie’s face went pale, then flushed with rage. She looked up and saw me standing on the balcony. I didn't smile. I just held up my coffee cup, took a sip, and watched as she was marched out of the building in front of fifty silent employees.
