More applause.
Morris was good. Uncomfortably good.
She didn’t speak like a politician padding a résumé. She spoke like someone who believed every syllable. She talked about fractured communities learning to trust again, about protecting families from predatory corporations, about integrity as a form of patriotism. She referenced the Marshand spill with somber gravity, offering accountability, healing, reform. She declared herself a solution to the decades of wasteful bureaucracy and corruption. A solution to hungry families and ineffective healthcare systems. To removing the shackles of government bloat on economic growth.
Norah found herself leaning in before she meant to. Her cadence was gentle but sure. Her eyes earnest. Her smile humble, just shy of rehearsed.
Norah’s breath eased without her permission.
Yes, she’d seen data anomalies. Yes, she’d seen scraps of behavior that didn’t line up. But listening to Morris now, hearing the conviction shaping every word...part of her desperately wanted to believe she was wrong. That the darkness she’d glimpsed was only noise, not pattern. That Marshall’s suspicions were just the product of a man who saw threats everywhere.
“Our own citizens must come before the global community. As my friends in air travel know,” she said with a smile, “we must put on our own oxygen mask before helping others. And make no mistake–our country has been gasping for air. No more! Because love of country,” Morris said, “is service. Service means sacrifice. And sacrifice means stepping between harm and the people we’re sworn to protect. Even when harm comes from the very people we’ve elected to lead.”
A ripple of emotion moved through the room. Goosebumps pricked Norah’s arms.
It was...stirring. Familiar. Comforting, even. Like a version of the faith she used to have—pulled taut with hope instead of fear. After weeks of tension and suspicion and not knowing who to trust, this felt like a balm.
Maybe Marshall was the one overreacting. Maybe she was letting paranoia distort the truth. Maybe Halewasright—maybe she needed to ease up, take a breath, let the system work.
Her throat tightened.
She chanced a glance at Marshall.
He wasn’t moved. Not even slightly. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed, assessing Morris with sharp, clinical precision. Not awed. Not swayed.
Like he’d already decided who she was.
Something pinched in Norah’s chest.
“...and we cannot do this alone,” Morris concluded. “We need partners—ethical firms, courageous analysts, leaders willing to speak truth to power. People like Citadel Security, Summit Capital, NorthBridge Energy. Thank you all so much for your early support.”
The spotlight swept the room. It found them.
Applause swelled louder. Hale stood from their table a few feet away, accepting the attention with a gracious incline of his head. A camera zoomed in. For a split second, Norah saw her own face on the big screen—right next to Hale’s, with Marshall in the background.
The image punched something low in her stomach.
Because for one fragile, impossible heartbeat, she’d hoped he might look at her the way Morris was makingherfeel—seen, understood, inspired.
But he hadn’t. On the dance floor, when he’d nearly said something real, something that would’ve changed everything...he’d stopped. Closed the door. Gone silent.
So she faced forward again, letting Morris’s words wash over her, steadier this time. Rooting deeper.
Maybethiswas where clarity lived—not in half-finished confessions or charged moments on the dance floor, but in stepping back into her own judgment. Her own belief in good people doing good things for the right reasons. She wanted to believe Morris’s message of a better future.
For the first time in weeks, she felt something like certainty forming in her chest. But what about Marshall’s evidence? What about this so-called Syndicate? The boogeyman, pulling all the strings. It felt more absurd with every word of Morris’s speech. That the beautiful, warm woman on that stage could be as evil as Marshall seemed to think.
After the speech, the room dissolved into that buzzing, post-address hum. People surged toward the bar and the restrooms, forming clusters of access and influence.
“Stay here,” he said.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. His gaze had already tracked ahead—zeroing in on Hale, who was being circled by donors, staffers, and at least one black-tie security officer who didn’t belong to the hotel.
“Talk to someone safe-looking. Don’t be alone.”
“I’m not a child,” she snapped.
