Chapter Two
1447 Words
Isla's Pov
The first notification came at 7:47 AM.
MORGAN PUBLISHING UNDER FEDERAL INVESTIGATION
I was still awake and sitting on my couch in yesterday's clothes, when my phone lit up with the headline. My hands shook as I clicked through to the article.
Federal prosecutors have launched an investigation into Morgan Publishing following allegations of widespread embezzlement and fraud. Sources close to the investigation confirm that CEO Richard Morgan is expected to be indicted on multiple counts of wire fraud, money laundering, and tax evasion...
My phone started ringing almost immediately but I didn't answer.
By 8 am, there were six more headlines:
BILLIONAIRE DAMIEN CROSS EXPOSES FUTURE FATHER-IN-LAW'S FRAUD
PUBLISHING EMPIRE BUILT ON STOLEN MILLIONS
MORGAN PUBLISHING EMPLOYEES FEAR FOR JOBS AS SCANDAL UNFOLDs
Future father-in-law my foot. The words made me want to laugh, or scream. We'd never even talked about marriage. In the last two years, Damien couldn't commit, let alone be a son inlaw. But he had needed only three months to tear my family apart.
My father was arrested and I watched it happen on live television, federal agents walking him out of his Upper East Side townhouse in handcuffs while reporters shouted questions and cameras flashed.
He kept his head up and his expression calm like this was just another inconvenience he'd handle with a phone call and a good lawyer but I could see it in his eyes. The fear.
My phone wouldn't stop ringing. Reporters, friends who weren't really friends, my father's attorney… Everyone wanted me to say something but I ignored all of them. There was only one person I secretly wished could call me.
At 9:30, I tried calling Damien but it went straight to voicemail.
I tried again at 10, then 11, then noon, but he never answered.
By 1 PM, my face was on news site in America talking about how I was quiet and missing in the midst of all the chaos.
They'd dug up photos from the gala four nights ago of me in the blue dress Damien had bought me, smiling at the camera like I didn't have a care in the world.
Isla Morgan, 23 year old daughter of disgraced CEO Richard Morgan, has been romantically involved with whistleblower Damien Cross for two years and have not had anything to say since the begining of the scandal.
The implication was clear. She was either complicit or a fool. Maybe both.
I read it three times before it sank in.
What the f**k is wrong with these people? Was Damien seeing what I was seeing? Could he see how he had made a fool of myself and my family?
I dialed his number again but once more, it went to voicemail.
Then I called his office and his assistant told me he was unavailable and would I like to leave a message?
"Tell him I called and I need to talk to him. Tell him it's important."
"I'll pass along the message, Ms. Morgan."
He never called back and by day two, I couldn't leave my apartment.
There were reporters camped outside my building shouting questions every time someone came in or went outt, hoping for a glimpse of me. The building manager called to ask if I could "maybe stay somewhere else for a few days" until things died down.
But where was I supposed to go?
My father was in federal custody, Damien wasn't taking my calls and my mother had been out of my life since I was twelve. I had no siblings, no family except my father whose name was now synonymous with fraud.
I sat on my bathroom floor, door locked, and let myself think about the pregnancy tests for the first time since Damien had walked out.
I was eight weeks pregnant with the child of the man who'd just destroyed my family, my house was no longer safe for me and I had no idea what to do about it.
Mr. Anderson called again. My father's attorney and this time, exhustion made me answer.
"Isla." His voice was gentle. "How are you holding up?"
"What do you want?"
"Your father is asking for you. He'd like you to visit him."
I closed my eyes. "I can't."
"He's your father, Isla. He needs you right now."
"He needs me?" My voice cracked. "He's the one who did this. He's the one who…"
I couldn't finish. Because saying it out loud would make it real, and I wasn't ready for that yet.
"I know this is hard," Mr. Anderson said quietly. "But he's still your father. And he loves you."
"Does he?" I whispered. "Because if he loved me, he wouldn't have done this. He wouldn't have carried our family legacy and rolled it in an August mud.”
"Isla…"
"I have to go."
I hung up before he could respond. Then I went to the federal detention center website and looked up visiting hours.
I didn't want to go, but I looked regardless.
After so much inner wrestling, I got up the next morning, got dressed, put on makeup to hide the fact that I'd been crying for three days straight, and took a cab to the detention center. I needed the answers anyway.
I made it all the way to the visitor check-in before his attorney found me.
"Isla, I'm glad you came. But I need to tell you, your father doesn't want to see you."
The words hit me like a slap.
"What?"
"He asked me to tell you that he has nothing to say while you're..." Mr. Anderson paused, choosing his words carefully. "While you're still involved with Mr. Cross."
I stared at him. "He thinks I'm still with Damien?"
"Aren't you?"
"Damien hasn't spoken to me since the news broke out. He won't take my calls. He won't…" My voice broke. "You know what? To hell with Damien, to hell with you, and to hell with him. Look at him playing victim."
I hissed and turned around.
“Isla wait. You can't blame him. Damien is the reason he is here.”
I took a deep breath. “And that is exactly why I am not with him.”
"I'll pass that along to your father. Maybe he'll reconsider."
But we both knew he wouldn't.
I left the detention center without seeing him and took a cab back to my apartment. The reporters were still there and they shouted questions as my guard helped me get inside.
"Isla, did you know about your father's crimes?"
"Were you working with him?"
"How long have you been helping Damien Cross?"
I locked myself in my bathroom and threw up. Morning sickness, I told myself. But I knew it was more than that. It was frustration and irritation.
My phone began to ring, it was Mr. Anderson.
"I spoke with your father. He's willing to see you now."
"Tell him I'm not coming."
"Isla…"
"Tell him that if he won't see me because of Damien, then he doesn't deserve to see me at all. Tell him I'm not going to fix this for him."
I hung up, went to my bedroom and started packing.
My apartment lease was up in three weeks and I had $3,000 in savings.
I could run, change my name and start over somewhere far from New York. Far from the press, far from Damien and my father and everything that had fallen apart.
Or I could stay, face this and try to rebuild something from the wreckage.
But how do you rebuild when you're eight weeks pregnant and the father won't return your calls?
I sat on my bed, one hand pressed to my flat stomach, and tried to imagine what staying would look like.Reporters following me everywhere, my father in prison and the recent development, only this evening I had seen that Damien was purchasing my family's company for chicken change. It hurt me even more that the narrative the media was painting was that he was saving the little that was left.
I thought about my own childhood. The press circus when my parents divorced, photographers outside my school, kids whispering in the hallways… the memory made my skin crawl.
I couldn't do that to my baby.
I couldn't raise a child in the middle of this. Not when the man responsible for this circus was also the father.
So I made my choice.
By midnight, I was done packing.
With three thousand dollars in cash, my mother's maiden name, and a pregnancy I'd face alone, I fled, leaving my phone on the counter, still ringing with calls I'd never answer.
By morning, Isla Morgan had vanished.
- Writer
