Chapter 2 – Morgan
Chapter Two
How to Make Your Ex Homicidal in Three Easy Steps
Morgan
"So about those snails..." Sam continued, his voice pulling my attention back to the conversation I'd been barely following.
I forced myself to focus on his earnest face, trying not to let my eyes drift toward the balcony doors where Lance had disappeared minutes ago.
The party hummed around us—laughter from the cluster of Pendragon employees by the bar, the soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers, the gentle clink of crystal as people moved through the elegantly lit space.
But I wasn't really seeing any of it. My skin felt too tight, hyperaware of every movement. When the balcony doors opened and Lance stepped back inside with Atticus, my pulse jumped despite my best efforts to stay calm.
I could feel him before I saw him properly—that electric awareness that had always existed between us, like a live wire running just beneath my skin.
He moved through the crowd with that predatory grace I knew so well, and when his eyes finally found me across the room again, heat bloomed across my chest and climbed up my neck.
The raw intensity in his jade-green eyes made my breath catch. They traveled over me slowly, narrowing ever so slightly when he took in Sam’s proximity.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and something flashed in his eyes. Possession? Regret? I couldn't tell, and I hated that I wanted to know.
I hated that after everything, after all the lies and half-truths, my body still responded to him like a tuning fork struck against metal.
I forced myself to look away, but not before I caught the slight curl of his lips—not quite a smile, more like a promise.
My hands trembled slightly, and I gripped my champagne flute tighter, grateful for the cool crystal against my heated palms.
"The marine center has this incredible touch tank where you can actually hold sea snails," Sam was explaining enthusiastically. "Would you be interested in checking it out sometime? Maybe this weekend?"
Wait. Was he asking me out? My stomach fluttered nervously, but not for the reason he probably hoped.
I was acutely aware of Lance cutting across the room, his movements purposeful and direct.
He was closer now—close enough that I could almost smell his cologne, that intoxicating mix of bergamot and cedar that used to cling to my sheets after he'd spent the night.
The temperature seemed to rise several degrees.
Every instinct screamed at me to run, to hide, to get as far away from him as possible.
But another part of me—the treacherous, aching part that missed him with a fierceness that scared me—wanted him to reach us.
Wanted to see what he'd do, what he'd say.
I laughed at something Sam said, the sound a little too bright, a little too desperate.
When I touched Sam's arm, I felt Lance's approach slow, felt the change in his energy like a gathering storm.
He was close enough now that I could feel his gaze on me, burning into my skin with an intensity that made my knees weak.
Sam, still talking about marine life, didn't notice the tension crackling around us. But my entire focus was on not looking at Lance, on pretending his presence wasn't affecting me. My body betrayed me—the flush creeping up my neck, the way my breath had gone shallow, the tremor in my hands.
"That sounds..." I started, then caught sight of my sister making her way toward us, one hand protectively cradling her belly. Her timing couldn't have been more perfect. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Sam. I really need to check on Gwen."
I gave him what I hoped was an apologetic smile and left him standing by the windows. Relief flooded through me as I moved quickly toward Gwen, though I could feel Lance's eyes tracking my movement across the room.
"There you are! How are you feeling?" I reached Gwen, immediately noticing the slight sheen of perspiration on her brow despite the apartment's perfect climate control.
"Hey. You look gorgeous. I was having a wardrobe crisis," she admitted. "Had a mini meltdown. Atticus checked on me, and I bit his head off."
"Please, you're the gorgeous one."
She wore a red satin sheath with a bolero that made her darker skin glow like a ruby. Her braids were freshly done, twisted into an elegant updo that showcased her strong jawline. She looked radiant and powerful—a goddess of motherhood.
Gwen wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. The bolero makes me feel like my boobs are going to pop out at any moment. They're double Es now!"
My jaw dropped. "Did you say Es?"
"Yes! Before, I was barely a C. Nothing fits, they're always achy. I'm tired of being pregnant, not just because I want to meet my daughter, who'll probably be as irritating as her father, but because I'm done."
She shifted her weight, and I caught the slight wince she tried to hide.
I laughed, the sound more genuine now, some of the tension in my shoulders easing. "I'm sorry. You look great, Gwen, honestly."
"Yeah, you said that the other day."
She fixed me with that knowing big-sister stare that had always made me feel like she could see straight through any pretense.
"Are you and Lance going to talk things out? Work through whatever happened?"
The question hit like ice water, washing away any momentary relief I'd felt. My spine straightened, defensive barriers sliding into place. "No. It's over. There's nothing to work out."
"Are you sure?" Her voice was gentle but knowing. "The opposite of love isn't hate, you know. It's apathy. And you, my love, are anything but apathetic when it comes to him. Do you want to talk about it?"
The weight of the past month crashed over me. All the hurt and anger and bone-deep confusion that came from loving him and simultaneously knowing he had deliberately kept even more secrets. Knowing how far he was willing to go in the name of protecting me.
Even still, I still wasn’t afraid of him. I was just afraid of how easily he could lie. To me of all people. After promising transparency.
My stomach dropped suddenly, and I caught Gwen's puzzled expression. She'd noticed my deliberate avoidance.
She leaned in and sniffed. "Though honestly, everything smells like hot garbage lately—but you smell fantastic. And that's Fenty body glow oil. He hasn’t taken the bait?"
I met my sister's gaze, ready to break down and tell her everything.
The lies. The half-truths. The way he'd made me feel safe only to pull the rug out from under me. But before I could form any words, before I could even begin to unpack the complicated knot of emotions that was my relationship with Lance, Gwen’s eyes widen.
She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise.
"Morgan?"
My heart jerked. "What's wrong?"
Gwen looked down at the floor, where a puddle was forming around her feet. "I think my water just broke."
"Oh shit." I stared at the growing puddle. The words sank in, and panic seized me. "Oh shit! ATTICUS!"
Lance
Morgan's scream sliced through the party's elegant hum like a blade.
I was already moving before my brain fully processed what was happening.
One moment I'd been making casual conversation with Atticus—carefully probing for information like the pathetic bastard I was, until I'd gleaned that Morgan was moving back in, not just visiting for the party—and the next, her voice was cutting through the champagne-soaked air with raw panic.
"ATTICUS!"
The word echoed, freezing conversations mid-sentence. Heads turned. Glasses paused halfway to lips. For a split second, the entire party held its breath.
Then chaos erupted.
I shouldered my way through the suddenly moving crowd, my eyes locked on the growing circle around Gwen and Morgan. Atticus had been at my side seconds ago, and now he was already at his wife's side, his face a mask of controlled terror.
"Is it time?" His voice cracked slightly, the composed CEO facade slipping. "Now? Here?"
"Unless I suddenly developed a bladder problem," Gwen managed, though her grip on Morgan's arm suggested this was far from the casual observation her tone implied.
The puddle on the floor told its own story. This was happening. Right now. At their welcome home party. Looked like my goddaughter was eager to meet the world.
I reached them just as Gavin materialized with his phone already pressed to his ear, his usual easy charm replaced by laser-focused efficiency. "Car's three minutes out," he reported. "Hospital's been notified."
Pierce appeared at the other side, already scanning the room with those sharp security-expert eyes that missed nothing. "Path's clear. We'll take the service elevator—faster at this hour."
Atticus stood beside Gwen, and for the first time since I'd known him, the composed CEO mask had completely slipped. His hand hovered over her back, uncertain. The man who ran shit all day looked lost. Gwen and I hadn't had much time to talk since they'd returned three days ago.
"I need—" Gwen started to say, then winced as another contraction hit. Her whole body tensed, and I caught a flash of fear in her eyes before she pressed her lips together.
"The bag," Morgan finished, already moving. "I'll get it." She squeezed Gwen's hand once before weaving through the crowd toward the door.
Atticus started to follow her movement, then stopped himself, torn between wanting to help and staying with Gwen. The indecision was written all over his face.
"Morgan's got it," I said. The normally composed Atticus was gone, replaced by a man whose entire world was contracting along with his wife.
"Let's go," Pierce said, gesturing toward the hallway. He'd already cleared a path, the party guests stepping back respectfully to give them space.
As we moved toward the elevator, I watched Morgan step up like the capable woman she was.
She hurried back with the bag and took her sister’s hand, murmuring something soothing to Gwen while keeping her upright, her movements sure despite the chaos.
She was exactly what her sister needed right now—calm, present, unshakeable.
Pretty fucking impressive for someone who probably hadn't slept well in a month.
While they focused on Gwen, my mind shifted to logistics. The party. We were leaving behind a penthouse full of guests. Someone needed to handle that.
As the elevator doors opened, Gwen grabbed both Morgan's and Atticus's hands through another contraction. Morgan's face remained steady, but I caught the flash of anxiety in her eyes.
"You guys go," I said. "I'll handle things here and bring Clarissa with me."
"Lance—" Atticus started.
"Go. She's in labor. I've got this."
The truth was, Morgan would want to stay with Gwen.
She'd probably sleep in that uncomfortable hospital chair for days if needed, and she hadn't packed for that.
The least I could do was handle the practical shit—get everyone out tactfully, clean up enough that they weren't coming home to chaos, pack a bag for Morgan.
Small things. Someone had to think through the details when crisis hit. And that someone was apparently me.
The caterers would have to be managed. And Morgan would need more than that dress if she was camping out at the hospital.
As I watched the elevator doors close, I was already mentally running through the list. Sometimes being the asshole who overthought everything actually came in handy.
Back inside, I found Gwen’s and Morgan’s stepmother, Clarissa, by the windows, looking shaken. She'd been part of my life since I was eighteen, had watched me grow up alongside Gwen. We didn't need many words.
"They're on their way to the hospital," I said. "Everything's fine. I'll drive you over in a bit."
She nodded, relief flickering across her face. "I just need a moment to get my things."
"Take your time. I've got to handle this circus first, then we'll go together."
The party had taken on that post-crisis energy, guests clustering in groups, voices hushed.
I moved through the room efficiently—thanking people for coming, assuring them everything was fine, subtly encouraging them to head out.
Within twenty minutes, the apartment was empty except for me, Clarissa, and the catering staff.
I found the head caterer directing his crew in the kitchen.
"Pack up what you can," I told him. "Leave what's already out. I'll handle the rest."
"Sir, the flowers?—"
"Leave them. Everything's fine."
After making sure they had payment sorted and were wrapping up quickly, I did a final sweep of the main rooms. Cleared the obvious mess, gathered up some glasses, ensured nothing valuable was left lying around.
The apartment didn't need to be perfect—it just needed to not be a disaster when everyone got back.
When the catering crew finished and left, I stood in the quiet space for a moment then grabbed Morgan's suitcase from the guest room.
She'd definitely stay at the hospital tonight, probably longer.
I packed quickly—comfortable clothes, her favorite sweater, that ridiculous skincare routine she'd left behind when she moved to the hotel.
Found her laptop. Her sketchbook. The things she'd need during a long hospital vigil.
When I was done, I looked around the guest room one last time. She'd be coming home to this room in a few days, with a niece. Everything would be different then.
I grabbed my keys. Time to meet them at the hospital.
"Clarissa?" I called out. "You ready?"
She appeared from the guest bathroom, purse in hand, looking composed again. "Let's go see our girl."
As we headed for the elevator, my phone buzzed. Text from Hector.
Hector: Congratulations to the new mother.