Hannah's Chance
Copyright© 2025 by jackmarlowe
Chapter 10
It was Wednesday, the day after Hannah’s suspension from her position at Layton Moreby. She had decided that she couldn’t just sit around thinking about what had happened, or wondering what to do next, but had to use her time in some useful and productive way.
To that end, she went online and began to study various investment matters, case studies, market analyses, hostile takeovers, sector volatility, emerging markets, anything she could find. She might be suspended from working, but she wasn’t suspended from learning.
The following day she did the same. Investment strategies, capital structures, convertible instruments, mezzanine financing, hybrid equity plays, anything she came across. She might have had her responsibilities taken away, but she hadn’t had her ambition taken away.
It was evening and she decided she’d studied enough for that day. Her mind drifted back to Tanaka and to Keller, and she wondered what was happening with those deals. It seemed likely that both would soon be completed, and she took satisfaction in her role in them. She may be in trouble with Clare, but at least she wasn’t in trouble for failing to deliver results.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Alessandro Rossi. “Tanaka board meets on Friday. We’re in the box seats.”
Hannah stared at the message. Victory. Tanaka secured. It was a triumph, but a triumph that felt hollow, distant. She was suspended, exiled from the very firm that would profit from her work. She didn’t reply. What was there to say? Thanks for the win I can’t celebrate?
Friday morning dawned grey and heavy. Hannah forced herself through her routine - coffee, more online study on distressed debt restructuring - but her focus was fractured. Tanaka’s board meeting would be happening now. Rossi’s confidence suggested a done deal. The Keller spin-off plan was likely heading toward completion at Creighton Bank, Alex’s illicit validation having paved its way. She’d worked so hard on these deals and now they were closing without her.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet. She was asked to sign for a letter and could see it was from Layton Moreby. The envelope felt heavy in her hands. Something from Clare? Something to do with compliance? The investigation?
Inside lay a single sheet of letterhead. Her eyes scanned the formal language, cold and precise: “Following preliminary review of breaches in compliance protocols and unauthorized external communications, your employment with Layton Moreby is terminated effective immediately. All accrued benefits and final remuneration will be processed in accordance with contractual terms. You are required to return company property, including access cards, by 5:00 PM today. Further communication regarding ongoing investigations will be issued separately.”
Terminated. The word echoed, sharp and final. Not suspension. Not probation. Over. Hannah sank onto the edge of her sofa, the paper trembling in her hand. Clare hadn’t waited for the Tanaka vote or Keller’s closure. She’d moved decisively, cutting Hannah loose before those deals could solidify her position. Hannah’s victories were now Layton’s assets, untethered from the liability she apparently represented.
A wave of cold fury washed over the initial shock. “Unauthorized external communications.” Clare knew that someone else was involved. She didn’t have proof, but she knew. This wasn’t just about protocol breaches, it was about eliminating a rogue element Clare could no longer control. Hannah had delivered Tanaka and Keller, salvaged Vince, but she’d done it outside the cage Clare tried to build. That was the unforgivable sin.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Alessandro Rossi. “Check Bloomberg.”
The message cut through her racing thoughts. She went online to the Bloomberg website and soon found the story that Rossi was referring to: “Shares in Tanaka Precision Industries jumped today, after the Singapore based conglomerate announced that its board had formally approved the restructuring proposal brokered by Layton Moreby Associates.”
Hannah stared at the screen. Tanaka secured. Her deal. Her strategy. Executed flawlessly without her. The article quoted Clare Buchanan lavishing praise on Layton Moreby’s “robust client first approach” and “exceptional teamwork.” Hannah’s name wasn’t mentioned. It was as if she’d never been part of the Tanaka deal. It was as if she’d never existed.
The fury crystallized into something cold and sharp. Clare hadn’t just fired her, she’d erased her contribution. Hannah had delivered Tanaka, Keller, Vince - everything Clare needed - and been discarded like used packaging. The unfairness of it burned, a white-hot coal in her chest. She wasn’t just unemployed; she was invisible.
The only positive aspect of her day was that at least she knew exactly where she stood. No more time would be spent in the twilight zone of suspension, since she now had the certainty that she was out of her job. Rather than concentrate on studying, she needed to switch her focus to seeking employment. She vowed to only fall back on her secretarial skills as an absolute last resort, but would her investment experience at Layton Moreby count for anything when they had fired her? Perhaps her career in the investment world was effectively over.
She spent some time on Saturday morning updating her CV, emphasizing her role in the Tanaka and Keller deals while omitting her termination. But who was going to hire her without references? Clare would ensure no glowing recommendations came from Layton Moreby. Hannah drafted cover letters anyway, her fingers stiff with her feelings of resentment.
On Sunday, she forced herself out for a walk. The air was crisp, but it made a change to the four walls of her apartment. She bought a newspaper and turned to the business section. “Creighton Closes In On Biotech Spin-Off.” Another of her victories, paraded without her name.
She crumpled the paper, tossing it into a bin. The unfairness gnawed deeper. She’d clawed her way out of the secretarial pool, applied herself diligently, taken on challenges, sacrificed dignity, and delivered results Clare could only dream of months ago. And for what? To be erased? To be left with nothing but a tarnished name and a CV that screamed “risk”?
Monday dawned bleak. Hannah scoured job boards and made several enquiries, but all the time she feared that Clare Buchanan’s disapproval would prove to be a scarlet letter. She pressed on regardless, determined to leave no stone unturned in her search for employment.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Alessandro Rossi. “Are you going to Toronto?”
Hannah stared at the screen. Toronto? Why would she want to go there? Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard before typing a reply. “Why Toronto?”
Rossi’s response was immediate. “International Trade Fair, Business & Investors Summit.”
She looked it up online, to find out what exactly Rossi was referring to. “This event is for those interested in networking with distinguished business leaders, international trade and development experts, and government representatives, in order to establish new business relations and learn more about trade and investment opportunities in various sectors.”
Hannah stared at the description. Rossi was dangling bait. But why? She wasn’t employed. She wasn’t representing anyone. Attending such a summit required credentials, connections, money she didn’t have. Her fingers hovered over the phone. “Why are you asking?” she typed back.
The reply came swiftly: “Because it’s an important event. And it’s not that far for you to travel.”
Hannah frowned at the screen. Rossi’s nonchalance felt deliberate, calculated. But she hadn’t told him she’d been fired, that she was adrift of the investment world. It seemed that this was the time to explain what had happened. And to make the point that as she had no employment and nobody to represent, going to Toronto wouldn’t be a sensible use of her time or her money.
She typed back. “Clare fired me. I have no affiliation. Attending isn’t feasible.”
This time Rossi’s reply was slow to arrive. “When one door closes another one opens.”
Hannah snorted bitterly at the cliché. She tossed her phone onto the sofa cushion, pacing the small living room. What doors? Unemployment? Blacklisting? Then she stopped abruptly. Wait a moment, she thought. Rossi didn’t deal in platitudes. Everything he said was deliberate. The invitation to Toronto wasn’t casual, it was something more. An opportunity perhaps? But for whom? For what?
It was evening now and well past midnight where Rossi was, so she decided that an immediate reply wasn’t necessary. She’d think about this latest development overnight.
The next morning, Hannah woke with Toronto still on her mind. Rossi’s cryptic message was starting to feel less like an invitation and more like a command. She checked her phone - no further texts. The silence was deliberate, she reckoned. He now knew she’d been fired, so he knew she was desperate. This summit was a test of some kind. Or a trap.
She brewed coffee, the bitterness matching her mood. Attending the summit meant expenses she could hardly afford - flights, hotels, delegate fees. Yet Rossi’s words echoed: “When one door closes...” She knew he wasn’t someone to waste time on empty consolation. Toronto mattered. But why? Was he offering her a role? A chance? Or just dangling hope to see how far she’d crawl?
She opened her laptop to read more about the summit, thinking it might offer some clue to Rossi’s intentions, when she noticed an email arrive in her inbox. It was confirmation of a flight booking to Toronto, departing in a week’s time. It thanked her for her payment.
Hannah stared at the screen. Payment? She hadn’t paid for anything. She checked her bank account and credit card online. As she expected, no such transaction had been made. Then the penny dropped - Rossi. It had to be him. He’d bought her ticket. The presumption was staggering, yet utterly characteristic. He was no longer asking, he was acting. This wasn’t an invitation anymore. It was a summons.
She noticed another email arrive. Event ticket confirmation. Hannah paced her apartment. Toronto meant opportunity - Rossi wouldn’t go to this much trouble without expecting a significant yield. But opportunity for whom? For her? Or for him?
She called Rossi directly. His voice was smooth, unsurprised. “You received the flight details?”
“You paid for it,” Hannah stated flatly. “Why?”
“I expected your employer to pay,” Rossi replied, his tone unreadable. “But as you don’t have an employer...”
Hannah gripped the phone tighter. “What do you want from me in Toronto?”
“Finding the answer to that question is worth the journey.”
His cryptic reply hung in the air as Hannah ended the call. She stared at the flight confirmation on her screen - Toronto Pearson Airport, departure in eight days. The gesture screamed investment, not charity. Rossi expected a return.
Although she had the flight booking and the event ticket, he hadn’t arranged any accomodation for her, so Hannah took the plunge and booked herself a cheap room near the convention center. Before leaving, she called Maria and explained that she wasn’t with Layton Moreby anymore, but hoped to continue their friendship. Maria had noticed that her recent emails had been answered by someone else, but had just assumed that Hannah had been busy with other projects.
“Clare fired you?” Maria sounded incredulous. “But Tanaka was your deal. Keller was your proposal. That’s insane.”
“Clare knew I used outside help. She couldn’t prove it, but she didn’t need to.” Silence stretched between them.
Maria sighed. “What now?”
“Toronto investors summit,” Hannah said. “Rossi booked me a ticket. I’m traveling today.”
Maria whistled low. “Be careful. That man doesn’t do favors. What’s the price?”
“Unknown,” Hannah admitted, the word tasting metallic. “But I’m out of work...” She ended the call, promising to contact Maria again on her return.
The flight to Toronto was uneventful, the hum of engines a dull counterpoint to Hannah’s churning thoughts. Rossi had been silent since booking the ticket and it felt deliberate, a tightening of invisible strings. She landed in a grey drizzle, the city skyline blurred beyond the taxi window. Her budget hotel room was functional - a narrow bed, a laminate desk, a view of a brick wall.
That afternoon Hannah navigated the crowded subway to the convention center. Inside, the trade fair was buzzing, the air thrumming with conversations at the exhibitor booths, where the logos of banks and fintech firms were prominently displayed. She moved through the throng, noting from their badges how many of the visitors were from Asia and Africa, and feeling acutely unanchored at not having any affiliation declared on her own badge. She didn’t see Rossi anywhere, and his absence was a palpable weight. “Why bring me here?* The question gnawed at her.
She forced herself to focus. Since she was here she would make the most of it. She attended sessions on emerging markets and private equity trends, taking meticulous notes. During a coffee break, she approached a group discussing African infrastructure investments. “Excuse me,” she began, projecting confidence she didn’t feel. “I’ve been analyzing the debt-to-GDP ratios in Kenya versus Ghana...” Her insights, sharpened by weeks of intensive study, drew nods. One delegate handed her a card. “Impressive perspective. Are you with a fund?”
“Independent consultant,” Hannah lied smoothly, the title tasting strange yet empowering. She pocketed the card, a tiny spark igniting in her chest. Perhaps this was why Rossi had brought her here - not to find him, but to find herself outside of Clare’s shadow. She moved to another booth showcasing Southeast Asian tech startups, engaging a founder in rapid-fire questions about burn rates and user acquisition costs. Her Layton Moreby experience, stripped of Clare’s name, felt like hers.
A hand landed lightly on her shoulder. Hannah turned to face Alessandro Rossi. He wore a charcoal suit, impeccable as always, his expression unreadable. “You look busy,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Hannah replied. “I’m networking.”
Rossi’s gaze swept the bustling hall. “Good. That’s precisely why you’re here.” He steered her toward a quieter corridor lined with private meeting rooms. “Tanaka’s restructuring is progressing smoothly. Keller’s spin-off launches next month. Both deals required ... unconventional methods.” He paused before an unmarked door. “Methods Layton Moreby’s old guard couldn’t stomach. But others value results over protocol.”
Hannah’s pulse quickened. “Others?”
Rossi opened the door and motioned for her to sit down. “Yes, others. Let’s start with the scarab. He regards Layton Moreby letting you go as a major miscalculation on their part. They tend to be very rigid and predictable in their ways, so he saw someone like you as an asset to them, someone who plays the game ... differently.”
Hannah sat stiffly. “And what game is that?”
“The real one,” Rossi said, taking the seat opposite her. “Where influence isn’t measured in compliance reports but in leverage. Where information flows through channels Clare Buchanan wouldn’t recognize.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “The scarab has interests beyond Tanaka. Interests that require someone ... unattached. Someone erased.”
Hannah felt a chill despite the room’s warmth. “Someone disposable?”
“Someone deniable,” Rossi corrected smoothly. “With proven talent for navigating complex situations. The scarab requires a liaison - discreet, resourceful, unburdened by corporate oversight - to facilitate certain transactions in emerging markets. Transactions Layton Moreby would deem ... unethical.”
Hannah absorbed this. The scarab’s world was one of shadowed boardrooms and unspoken rules, where Shirley had thrived before vanishing. “What kind of transactions?”
“High-risk, high-reward ventures,” Rossi explained. “Private equity in regions with unstable governance. Resource extraction where permits are ... flexible. The kind of deals Clare would call reckless, but which yield extraordinary returns for those with the stomach for them. The scarab believes you possess Shirley’s pragmatism but lack her recklessness. He wants you to evaluate these opportunities. Find the diamonds in the rough.”
Hannah’s mind raced. Emerging markets were volatile, often ethically murky. Yet her Tanaka and Keller successes proved she could navigate complexity. “Why me? I’m untested in this arena.”
Rossi’s smile was thin. “Your Tanaka salvage was a masterclass in high-stakes maneuvering. You extracted value from potential ruin while exposing threats. The scarab values that instinct.”
Hannah leaned back, the cheap plastic chair creaking. “And my compensation? I don’t work for free anymore.”
“Nobody expects you to work for free,” Rossi stated without hesitation. “The fees on offer will be fair compensation.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “Fair?”
“More than fair,” Rossi clarified. “And the scarab isn’t the only player at the table. There are other opportunities. Enough to build your own consultancy.”
Hannah studied Rossi’s face, searching for the trap. “And your role? Broker? Benefactor?”
“Facilitator,” Rossi corrected. “I connect talent with opportunity. The scarab trusts my judgment. As do others.” He slid a card across the table. “Take some time to think about this. We’ll talk again over dinner tonight.”
Hannah pocketed the card without looking at it. “And if I decline?”
Rossi stood, adjusting his cufflinks. “Then you return to your hotel, fly home, and continue your life without us. But ask yourself this - how many firms value what you actually bring to the table?” He left without waiting for an answer, the door clicking shut behind him.