Chapter 5 - The Corporate Purge

By Monday morning, the financial world was in a state of absolute seismic shock.
The headline flashing across every major financial news network—from Bloomberg to CNBC—read: MORRISON INDUSTRIES HALTED; ASSETS FROZEN AMID SUDDEN TAKEOVER BY MYSTERIOUS GLOBAL CONGLOMERATE AETHER.
Inside the gleaming, glass-walled executive suite on the 50th floor of the Aether Global headquarters in downtown Manhattan, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding downstairs.
Cassidy sat behind a massive, minimalist obsidian desk. She had changed into a tailored, deep navy maternity dress that commanded quiet authority. Her hair was styled in a sleek, elegant chignon, and her expression was utterly composed.
Arthur Vance sat across from her, scrolling through a tablet filled with real-time financial metrics.
"The board restructuring is complete, Cassidy," Arthur reported, a look of profound admiration on his face. "All executive positions formerly held by Morrison loyalists have been vacated. The stock price of Morrison Industries took a massive hit at market open, dropping forty-two percent within the first ten minutes."
"Let it drop," Cassidy said calmly, sipping a cup of hot chamomile tea. "We don't want the legacy stock. We want the underlying infrastructure. Strip away the toxic assets, liquidate the non-performing subsidiaries, and integrate their logistics network directly into Aether’s supply chain."
"Done," Arthur said, tapping his screen. "Also... you have some visitors in the lobby. Visitors who are currently being denied entry by building security, but who are making quite a dramatic scene."
Cassidy raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess."
"Brendan and Diane Morrison," Arthur confirmed. "They managed to borrow a cab—though rumor has it their credit cards were declined even for that—and they’ve been camped out in the lobby for the last hour demanding an audience with the 'Supreme Chairperson'."
Cassidy looked out the floor-to-ceiling glass window, watching the distant toy-like movement of cabs down on the Manhattan streets. "Send them up."
Twenty minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the executive suite swung open.
Brendan and Diane looked like ghosts of their former selves. Diane’s expensive designer suit was wrinkled, her hair was disheveled, and her face was pale with exhaustion and panic. Brendan looked as though he had aged ten years overnight; his tie was crooked, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and his usual swagger had been replaced by a desperate, hollow stare.
They stepped into the vast, ultra-modern office, their eyes darting nervously around the room before landing on the woman sitting behind the obsidian desk.
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For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sheer scale of the office—and the absolute realization of who Cassidy really was—hit them with the force of a tidal wave.
Diane opened her mouth, closed it, and then swallowed hard, her voice coming out as a cracked whisper. "Cassidy... please."