The Raise of James Morrison.

Chapter 8

James touched his cheek where the cut had already scabbed over. "You don't owe me anything, Emily."

"Yes, I do. I don't like being in debt, even emotional debt. We're going to divorce eventually anyway might as well keep the accounts clean." Her tone was businesslike, distant, as if they were discussing a contract rather than their marriage.

James felt something shift in his chest. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"What if I could change? What if you saw a completely different version of me?"

Emily's jaw tightened. For just a moment, something flickered in her eyes hope? curiosity? but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. She shook her head.

"Don't talk nonsense, James. As long as you're in the Anderson family, you'll be crushed. Every single day. If you actually had talent, ability, backbone anything worth having you wouldn't have spent three years being everyone's punching bag." Her voice wasn't cruel. It was tired. Resigned. "People don't change. Not really. Especially not people like you."

She turned and walked away before he could respond, her heels clicking against the marble.

James stood alone again, staring after her.

The afternoon was settling into early evening when the sound of the front door opening interrupted the low hum of conversation in the hall. One of the household staff a young maid in a crisp black and white uniform hurried through the room toward Grandma Anderson's table, her expression flustered and confused.

She leaned down and whispered something into the old woman's ear.

Grandma Anderson's eyebrows shot up. "What did you say?"

The maid repeated herself, a bit louder this time. "Someone sent gifts to the house, ma'am. A... a lot of gifts."

"Gifts?" Grandma Anderson's voice carried across the room, drawing everyone's attention. "What kind of gifts? From whom?"

"They said they're from the Morrison family, ma'am."

A confused murmur rippled through the crowd. Morrison? That name wasn't familiar at least not in connection with the Andersons. Hai City had its established social circles, and the Anderson family knew exactly where they ranked. Comfortable. Respectable. But not elite.

So who the hell were the Morrisons?

"There's no Morrison family in our social circle," Grandma Anderson said slowly, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Are you certain they said Morrison?"

"Yes, ma'am. The gentleman who delivered them was very clear." The maid hesitated. "He's waiting in the entrance hall with the items. He said he's a messenger."

Grandma Anderson stood, her cane tapping against the floor. "Well, don't just stand there. Bring him in. Let's see what this is about."

Everyone turned toward the entrance as a man in an impeccably tailored black suit entered the hall. He was tall, perhaps in his fifties, with silver hair combed back and a posture that screamed military precision. He carried a leather-bound ledger in one hand and moved with the calm authority of someone who served powerful people.

Behind him, a small army of staff members began bringing in gifts.

And they kept coming.

Boxes. Crates. Elegant packages wrapped in silk and tied with gold ribbon. They lined up along the side of the hall like soldiers on parade dozens of them, meticulously arranged.

The Anderson family stared, slack-jawed.

"Good evening," the messenger said, his voice smooth and formal. He gave a small bow to Grandma Anderson. "I represent the Morrison family. I've been instructed to deliver these gifts on behalf of the family patriarch."

Grandma Anderson blinked, clearly taken aback. "The Morrison family. Forgive me, but I don't believe we've had the pleasure of your family's acquaintance."

"That is correct, ma'am. However, my employer wished to extend his regards and present these tokens of respect." The messenger opened the ledger and began to read in a clear, measured voice.

"One 75-inch kings limited edition television, top of the line.

One case of aged ginseng root, 30 years old, premium grade.

One diamond necklace, 18-karat white gold setting, 15 carats total weight.

One set of jade carvings, Qing Dynasty reproductions, museum quality.

One case of Château Margaux, 1982 vintage, twelve bottles.

One collection of first-edition novels, leather-bound, including works by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Steinbeck.

One cashmere blanket set, imported from Scotland.

One—"

He continued for nearly five full minutes, his voice never wavering, as the Anderson family stood frozen in stunned silence.

When he finally finished, the last item on the list made several people gasp audibly.

"And finally, $10,000,000 in cash, delivered via certified check."

The hall erupted into chaos.

"Ten million dollars?!"

"Are you serious?!"

"Who are these people?!"

Grandma Anderson gripped her cane tightly, her knuckles white. Her mind was racing. The Morrison family. She'd never heard the name before, but anyone who could casually drop half a million dollars in Gifts not investments, not business deals, but Gifts—was operating on a level far beyond the Andersons.

This wasn't just wealth. This was power.

"Excuse me," Grandma Anderson said, stepping forward, her voice trembling slightly with excitement she couldn't quite hide. "May I ask... what is the purpose of these gifts? Is your family looking to establish a business relationship? Or perhaps..." She glanced meaningfully at the younger women in the room, several of whom were practically vibrating with anticipation. "...a more personal connection?"

The messenger's expression remained professionally neutral. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss my employer's intentions, ma'am. I'm simply here to deliver the items as instructed."

"But surely you must know something," Grandma Anderson pressed. "Why our family? Why now? Is there a particular member of the Anderson family your employer is interested in?"

The messenger closed his ledger with a soft snap.

"I'm only a messenger, ma'am. I deliver what I'm told to deliver. Nothing more."

Grandma Anderson quickly composed herself and forced a gracious smile. "Of course, of course. Please, allow me to offer you a token of our appreciation for making such a journey." She gestured to one of the staff, who hurried away and returned moments later with a small mahogany box. Grandma Anderson opened it, revealing an antique pocket watch.

"This belonged to my late husband. It's over a hundred years old. Please, take it as thanks."

The messenger glanced at the watch and shook his head politely. "I appreciate the gesture, ma'am, but I cannot accept gifts while on duty. I'm merely a messenger." He gave another small bow. "I hope your family enjoys the items. Good evening."

And with that, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the hall until the front door closed behind him with a decisive click.

For three full seconds, nobody moved.

Then the room exploded into frantic speculation.

"Oh my God, did that just happen?!"

"Ten million dollars!"

"Who the hell is the Morrison family?!"

"They've got to be at least top-tier. Maybe even higher!"

"Higher than top-tier? That's like... that's billionaire territory!"

"Why would a family like that send gifts HERE?"

"There's only one explanation," said Marcus Wellington, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. He stood near the center of the room, his handsome face lit with excitement. "They're interested in marriage."

The hall went silent again.