Page 89 of Dirty As Puck
Judge Harold Morrison Linked to the Morrison Network.
My pulse stutters. Kai’s father? It doesn’t seem real. But then another update hits
Morrison himself has surfaced, confirming Derek’s threats, ready to go on record.
I lean back, pressing a trembling hand to my lips. This isn’t just Derek being exposed. This is the foundation of his entire empire crumbling, one name at a time.
And my article started all of it.
The meeting room is quiet, stripped of any distraction. There’s just a round table, three chairs, and the weight of lost decades pressing down. I sit beside Kai, close enough that he can feel me there, though he hasn’t unclenched his fists since we walked in.
When the door opens, Harold Morrison doesn’t look like the powerful judge I’ve seen in press photos. He looks like a man carrying too many years of regret. His eyes go straight to Kai, and the silence feels so thick it’s hard to breathe in it.
“Kai,” Harold says softly, almost reverently. “I… I’ve wanted to meet you your whole life.”
Kai doesn’t answer. His jaw is tight, his shoulders rigid, but I see the flicker of pain in his eyes.
Harold takes the empty chair, his voice unsteady but clear. “Derek blackmailed me. He found out about my affair with your mother. He threatened to destroy my career, ruin her reputation, and hurt anyone close to me. I thought staying away would protect you.” His voice breaks. “It was the biggest mistake of my life.”
Kai’s laugh is bitter, sharp. “So, you just left me to think I didn’t matter?”
Harold leans forward, his eyes wet. “You’ve always mattered. I followed your career. I was proud from the shadows. But I let fear chain me, and I can never get those years back.”
The room feels fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it. Kai drags a hand over his face, torn between fury and something rawer. Slowly, his voice drops. “You wanted me.”
“Yes,” Harold whispers. “Always.”
Something in Kai’s expression shifts and I see his anger giving way to grief, grief bleeding into gradual relief. He nods once, still trembling.
I watch him, my chest swelling with pride. He isn’t alone anymore. He has found his father and it makes me happy to witness the reunion between father and son.
My apartment looks nothing like a newsroom, but this morning it feels louder than any press floor I’ve ever worked on. My laptop continues to ping with notifications popping one after the other, emails, mentions, and messages from reporters who wouldn’t even look me in the eye a week ago.
The same voices that called me reckless, unethical, and desperate are quoting my words now, linking my exposé as the breakthrough of the year.
“Relentless investigative work.”
“Courageous reporting.”
“A masterclass in independent journalism.”
My name, my writing, finally standing without distortion.
It should feel like a win for me. And it does, but not in the way I once imagined. I thought I wanted the spotlight back, the respect, a desk with my nameplate polished clean of any suspicion.
But as the flood of headlines multiplies across my screen, I realize it isn’t about reclaiming what I lost. It’s about claiming something truer, a strong reminder of the reason I became a journalist in the first place. To tell stories that matter. To fight for people who can’t fight for themselves.
Kai’s story. Our story.
There’s a knock at my door, and then he’s there, stepping into the mess of my buzzing laptop and scattered printouts.
He looks at me like none of it, the praise, the chaos, the vindication, matters half as much as the fact that I’m here.
“You did it,” he says, voice low, almost a whisper.
I shake my head, tears blurring the screen. “We did it. Your truth is finally out there.”
He takes my hands, grounding me. “No, Rochelle. You gave me back my life. And my family.” His eyes shine, raw and unguarded. “You gave me something I thought I’d never have.”
