Chapter 3 First Contact
Morgana's POV
I swipe my card through the reader on the thirty-eighth floor coffee machine at exactly 9:15 AM, the same ritual that's sustained me through three years of brutal deadlines and impossible client demands. The machine responds with a grinding noise that sounds like death, followed by silence. Perfect. The Morrison account presentation is due in four hours, I've been running on three hours of sleep, and now the universe decides to deny me caffeine.
"Come on," I mutter, pressing buttons in increasingly desperate combinations. The digital display blinks error codes that might as well be hieroglyphics. I consider taking the elevator down to the lobby café, but that means fifteen minutes I don't have and a line of tourists buying overpriced lattes while I stand there calculating compound interest rates in my head.
"Having trouble?"
I turn to find David Kellerman standing behind me, close enough that I catch the subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive that suggests he shops at places where they know your name and preferences. He's holding a small toolkit in one hand and wearing the kind of confident smile that probably comes naturally when you're a VP before age thirty-five.
"The machine's possessed," I say, stepping aside as he approaches. "I think it's plotting against my productivity."
"Let me take a look." His fingers move over the machine's panel with practiced efficiency, pressing a sequence of buttons I would never have thought to try. "These models are temperamental. I had the same one in my old office—you have to sweet-talk them."
The machine whirs back to life, and he gestures toward the card reader. "Go ahead, try again."
I insert my card, and this time it responds with the familiar grinding of beans and the blessed sound of brewing coffee. "How did you do that?"
"Maintenance shortcuts. I may work in client relations, but I spent summers during college fixing equipment at my father's restaurant." He leans against the counter while my coffee brews, and I notice his dark eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that should feel intrusive but somehow doesn't. "You're Morgana Gaius, right? I've been following your work on the Morrison account."
The coffee finishes brewing, and he hands me the cup, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment. The contact sends an unexpected jolt up my arm—the kind of electric connection I've read about in novels but never experienced in real life. I pull my hand back more quickly than necessary, wrapping both palms around the warm ceramic.
"You've read my Morrison analysis?" I ask, trying to sound professional instead of surprised. Most VPs don't have time to review individual analyst reports, especially not from someone three levels below them in the corporate hierarchy.
"Your risk assessment on the Latin American markets was brilliant. The way you factored political instability into the currency hedging strategy—that's the kind of thinking that separates good analysts from exceptional ones."
I stare at him, coffee cup halfway to my lips. In three years at Meridian Financial, exactly two people have complimented my actual work rather than my appearance or my ability to work late without complaining. My direct supervisor and the head of risk management, both of whom were required to review my reports. David Kellerman has no professional obligation to read anything I write.
"Thank you," I manage, taking a sip of coffee that tastes better than it has any right to. "That means a lot, coming from someone with your track record in client relations."
"I believe in knowing what's happening throughout the company. The best client relationships are built on understanding our internal capabilities." He checks his watch, a gesture that suggests he has places to be but isn't rushing away from our conversation. "How are you finding the Morrison timeline? I know Henderson's been pushing for aggressive delivery schedules."
We fall into conversation about market volatility and client expectations, the kind of professional discussion I've craved but rarely found with colleagues who see me as competition rather than collaboration. David asks thoughtful questions about my methodology, challenges my assumptions without dismissing them, and offers insights from his client interactions that add depth to my analysis.
"The European markets are going to be the real challenge," I say, warming to the topic despite my usual caution about sharing insights with senior executives. "The regulatory environment is shifting faster than most firms can adapt."
"Have you considered the pharmaceutical sector as a hedge against manufacturing volatility?" he asks. "My contacts in Geneva suggest there's opportunity in the biotech space that most firms are overlooking."
"That's actually brilliant," I say, my mind already running calculations about portfolio diversification. "I hadn't thought about healthcare as a stability play."
His smile widens, and I realize I've been talking for ten minutes without checking the time or worrying about my presentation deadline. When was the last time a conversation made me forget about work stress instead of adding to it?
"I should let you get back to your deadline," he says, straightening from his casual lean against the counter. "But if you'd be interested in continuing this discussion, I'd love to buy you a drink after work. There are some market trends I'd like to run by someone with your analytical perspective."
The invitation hangs in the air between us, and I feel my carefully constructed professional boundaries wavering. Office romances are career suicide, especially for women trying to advance in competitive environments. I've watched too many talented colleagues get dismissed as someone's girlfriend instead of recognized for their professional contributions.
But David isn't asking for a date. He's suggesting a professional discussion over drinks, the kind of networking opportunity that could advance my career if I handle it correctly. And there's something about his attention—the way he listens to my ideas without interrupting, the way he treats my insights as valuable rather than surprising—that makes me want to continue the conversation.
"I'd like that," I hear myself saying, despite every rational warning in my analytical mind. "The Morrison presentation should be finished by six."
"Perfect. There's a place on Madison Avenue—quiet enough for serious conversation, good wine list. Shall I meet you in the lobby at seven?"
"Seven works."
He extends his hand for a professional handshake, and again I feel that unexpected jolt of connection when our skin touches. "I'm looking forward to it, Morgana."
I watch him walk toward the elevator bank, noting the confident way he moves and the fact that three different women track his progress with appreciative glances. David Kellerman is clearly accustomed to female attention, which makes his interest in my professional insights feel both flattering and dangerous.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I head back toward my cubicle, coffee in hand and mind already returning to currency hedging strategies. The notification shows a breaking news alert from the local news app I never remember to delete.
"Second Young Professional Found Dead in Manhattan Apartment—Police Investigate Dating App Connection."
I stop walking, nearly spilling coffee on my blouse as the headline registers. Another young woman, another professional, another victim of whatever predator is hunting women like me through the dating apps I've never had time to explore.
The coffee suddenly tastes bitter in my mouth as I realize how naive I've been to feel safe in my isolation. Working late, living alone, focusing on career advancement while ignoring personal relationships—maybe the lifestyle I've chosen makes me exactly the kind of target this killer is looking for.
I glance back toward the elevator bank, but David has already disappeared behind closing doors, leaving me alone with my coffee and a growing awareness that Manhattan might be more dangerous than I've allowed myself to acknowledge.