Chapter 32 – Morgan
32
IF WISHES WERE HORSES
MORGAN
I stood at my father's front door, my hand hovering over the doorknob, trying to ignore the way my stomach twisted into knots. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn, making the townhouse look more like a mausoleum than a home. After everything Lance had shared with me—his journals, his past, his heart—I wanted to do the same. I needed to show him my old diaries, filled with teenage dreams and angst, proof that I'd loved him even back then.
But something felt off. The air was too still, the silence too complete. Even the birds seemed to have abandoned their usual perches in the oak trees that lined the street.
The key still worked. Dad hadn't even bothered to change the locks. I wasn't sure if that was arrogance or apathy—probably both. The door swung open with a familiar creak, and I stepped into the foyer, immediately hit by the overwhelming scent of fresh lilies. Clarissa's influence lingered even though she was gone, like a ghost haunting the halls.
Everything looked exactly the same—the antique console table, the fresh flowers arranged just so, even the stack of mail neatly arranged by size. It was like stepping into a time capsule, except the air felt heavier somehow, charged with an electricity that made my skin prickle.
My heels clicked against the hardwood floors as I made my way up to my old room, each step echoing through the silence like a countdown. The sound reminded me of all the times I'd tried to sneak in late, tiptoeing past my father's study, holding my breath until I was safely behind my bedroom door.
My room was untouched, preserved like a museum exhibit of my teenage years. The pale blue walls, the white curtains that billowed in the afternoon breeze, the cork board still covered with fashion sketches and magazine cutouts—it was all exactly as I'd left it. Even my bed was made with the same duvet, though the fabric smelled musty now, unused.
The jewelry box sat on my dresser, exactly where I'd always kept it. My hands trembled slightly as I lifted it, the familiar weight bringing back a rush of memories. The false bottom was still secure, hiding my most precious secrets. I pulled out the diaries, their worn leather covers soft against my fingers.
God, how many hours had I spent writing in these? Pouring my heart out about Lance, about my dreams, about everything I thought I couldn't say out loud? I opened one at random, my teenage handwriting filling the pages with hopes and fears and endless speculation about whether Lance would ever see me as more than Gwen's little sister.
"Looking for something?"
I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat. My father stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, looking every inch the corporate shark in his tailored suit. He looked older somehow, worn around the edges in a way I'd never noticed before. The lines around his mouth were deeper, etched with a bitterness that seemed to have seeped into his very bones.
"Just getting some things," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the way my pulse raced. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute."
He stepped into the room, his Italian loafers silent against the carpet. His gaze fell on the diaries in my hands, and something flickered across his face—disgust maybe, or disappointment. It was an expression I'd grown far too familiar with over the years.
"Running back to Lakewood with your tail between your legs?" The words dripped with disdain.
"Actually," I said, straightening my spine and lifting my chin, "I wanted to thank you."
That caught him off guard. His eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he looked genuinely confused. It was almost satisfying, seeing him thrown off balance for once.
"Your assholery pushed me to be better," I continued, surprising myself with how steady my voice was. "Every time you tried to break me down; I built myself up stronger. Every dream you tried to crush just made me want it more. So, thank you for being such a terrible father. It made me who I am."
His laugh was cold, cutting through the air like glass. It was a sound I remembered from countless dinners, countless arguments, countless moments when he'd made me feel small and worthless. But I wasn't that girl anymore.
"And who exactly is that?" he sneered, his lip curling. "The whore who spreads her legs for a psychopath?"
"Don't," I warned, but he pulleed out a tablet with a deliberate slowness that told me he'd been waiting for this moment.
"You want to know who your precious Lance really is?" He pulled out his phone, tapping through to what looked like a security feed. "Take a look at what your boyfriend did to me."
The footage was grainy but clear enough. My heart stopped as I watched Lance move through the study like a predator, his movements fluid and deadly. This wasn't the Lance I knew—the one who held me at night, who made me laugh, who looked at me like I was his whole world. This was someone else entirely.
I watched, unable to look away, as Lance pulled out a syringe with practiced ease. My stomach churned as he jabbed it into my father's neck without hesitation. The way he handled my paralyzed father, dragging him to a chair then methodically setting the fire - it was controlled, calculated, and terrifying in its efficiency.
"He drugged me, left me paralyzed, and tried to burn me alive," Dad said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Your knight in shining armor is nothing but a trained killer. Is that the kind of man you want to give yourself to?" When he was playing at being honest?"
"I don't believe you," I whispered, but the words felt hollow. Because I did believe it. Deep down, I knew this was the side of Lance he'd been trying to hide—the darkness he'd warned me about, the parts of himself he thought would drive me away.
"Believe what you want," Dad said, tucking the tablet away. "But remember this moment when it all falls apart. When you realize that no matter how much he claims to love you, he'll always keep his secrets. He'll always be what they made him."
He walked out, leaving me standing there with my childhood diaries clutched to my chest like a shield. The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd come here wanting to share my past with Lance, only to discover that he was still hiding his from me.
I sank onto my old bed, the springs creaking under my weight, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. I'd thought we were past the secrets, past the lies. I'd thought that when he shared his journals with me, he was finally letting me see all of him. But there would always be more, wouldn't there? More secrets, more darkness, more parts of himself he'd keep locked away.
"You deserve everything you get," Dad called from the hallway, his footsteps fading away.
I looked down at the diaries in my hands, at all the pages filled with my hopes and dreams about Lance. God, I'd been so naive. Even back then, writing about him like he was some kind of fairy tale prince who would sweep me off my feet. And now? Now I had him, had everything I'd ever wanted, but it was built on shifting sand.
The tears came then, hot and angry, rolling down my cheeks as I realized that no matter how much I loved him, no matter how much he claimed to love me, Lance would always keep parts of himself hidden in the shadows. He'd share just enough to make me feel special, to make me feel like I was the only one who truly knew him, but there would always be more lurking beneath the surface.
I opened one of my diaries to a random page, my teenage handwriting swimming before my tears.
Lance looked at me today. Really looked at me, like he was seeing me for the first time. God, I wish I could tell him how I feel. I wish I could make him understand that I see him—really see him. Not just as Gwen's friend, but as someone special.
I slammed the diary shut, unable to bear the innocence of those words. Because I'd been wrong, hadn't I? I'd never really seen him at all. I'd only seen what he wanted me to see, what he chose to show me.
And I couldn't live with that. Not again. Not ever.
I gathered my diaries and stood up, wiping the tears from my face. The room suddenly felt suffocating, every memory tainted by this new reality. I needed to get out of here, needed to think, needed to figure out what to do with this revelation.
As I walked down the stairs, each step felt heavier than the last. The diaries in my arms were no longer a gift to share with Lance—they were a reminder of how foolish I'd been, how completely I'd fallen for the illusion he'd crafted.
When Lance told me he had a dark side, I couldn’t even fathom what he’d meant.
Lance had said he would fully let me in, But there were things he wasn’t telling me. When he said he’d seen my father, he’d conveniently left out the fire.
Again, he’d only shown me what he wanted me to see.
I paused at the front door, looking back at the house that had shaped so much of who I was. My father had tried to break me, but he'd only made me stronger. Lance, though... Lance might actually succeed where my father had failed.
Because loving someone who could never fully let you in? That was its own kind of breaking.