Chapter 6 – Morgan
Chapter Six
Fuck Men, Dream Jobs and a Little Attempted Kidnapping...
Morgan
Someone needed to invent soundproof baby rooms. Like, yesterday.
I'd installed white noise machines, bought the most expensive noise-canceling headphones money could buy, and even tried sleeping with a pillow over my head.
None of it worked. Ava had decided that 2 AM, 3 AM, and 4:30 AM were prime social hours, and her vocal cords were apparently designed for stadium concerts.
Don't get me wrong—I loved my niece. But after three nights of her midnight serenades echoing through the penthouse's open-concept design, I was running on fumes and determination.
You could always go back to Lance's place. That loft was always silent.
No. Absolutely not. I wasn't that desperate for sleep. Even if his guest room had blackout curtains and soundproofing that would make a recording studio jealous.
Which was why I was dragging ass at the co-op this evening, clutching my fourth espresso like a lifeline. The warehouse was almost empty—just me and a few diehards still working on projects.
The constant bodyguard situation wasn't helping my mood. Anthony and Alex—Pierce's guys—had been stationed outside for three days now. After the hospital, after seeing Lance's hands around that man's throat, I understood the need. That didn't make the constant surveillance any less suffocating.
I'd been hand-stitching beadwork on a plushie for Ava when my phone rang.
"Adele Beekman" flashed on the screen. My stomach flipped. Adele never called this late unless something was wrong. Or very, very right.
"Hello?"
"Morgan? It's Adele."
"Ms. Beekman." I straightened, suddenly wide awake. "Is everything okay?"
"I have a proposition," she said without preamble. Classic Adele—straight to the point, no small talk.
"Are you sitting down?"
I perched on my stool. "Now I am."
"I've been reconsidering our arrangement. Instead of incorporating your pieces into my collection, I want to give you something better."
My heart hammered against my ribs. Better? What could be better than?—
"Your own line. Twenty pieces. Full collection. New York Fashion Week."
The words hit me like electricity. I blinked, certain I'd misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Twenty pieces, Morgan. Under the Beekman umbrella, but entirely yours.
Your vision, your aesthetic, your moment.
" Her voice carried that cool confidence that made her a fashion icon.
"And if it goes well—which I believe it will—I want you in London.
A year with Yissa Perrault, my head designer there. "
London. My own collection. Fashion Week.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
My heart was racing so fast I felt faint. "I... wow. I don't know what to say."
A bright chuckle came down the line. "Say yes."
My mouth opened and closed like a fish. This was everything I'd dreamed of since I was twelve, sketching gowns in the margins of my notebooks. My own line. Not just a few pieces in someone else's show—my name, my designs, my career.
"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes . Absolutely yes!"
"Excellent. I'll have Conrad send over the details. First deadline is preliminary sketches by next Friday. You'll have access to the atelier's resources, of course."
Next Friday. Prelim sketches. My mind was already racing.
"Thank you," I managed. "This is... incredible. I won't disappoint you."
"I know you won't. Don't make me regret this, Morgan."
The line went dead.
This was it. This was my fucking moment.
I stared at my phone, waiting for my brain to catch up. Twenty pieces. Fashion Week. My own line.
Holy shit. What had I just agreed to?
The exhaustion was gone, replaced by something that felt like panic disguised as excitement. My hands shook as I set the phone down.
Twenty pieces. In three months.
What if I couldn't do it? What if I froze up? What if I just made a complete ass of myself in front of the entire fashion world?
I sat there, frozen, until?—
"Jesus, Morgan, what the hell are you screaming about?"
I spun around to find Amber approaching, looking concerned and slightly amused. Her red curls were wild, her vintage band t-shirt wrinkled like she'd been working all day.
"Amber!" I practically launched myself at her. "You're not going to believe what just happened!"
She caught me, laughing. "Okay, slow down. Did you mainline Red Bull?"
"Better. Adele just called."
Amber wrinkled her nose. "And?"
"She wants to give me my own line. Twenty pieces. For Fashion Week. FASHION WEEK, AMBER!"
Amber's eyes went wide. "Are you serious? Your own line?"
"My own fucking line!" I grabbed her hands, bouncing on my toes. "Not just a few pieces in her collection—MY collection. With MY name on it."
"Morgan, that's incredible!" She pulled me into a hug, spinning us both around. "I'm so proud of you!"
When she set me down, I was grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. "I have so much work to do. Ten sketches by Friday, then twenty complete pieces. The timeline is insane, but?—"
"But you can do it," Amber interrupted firmly. "You're the most talented designer I know. And the most stubborn."
"Thanks. I think…"
For the next hour, we went through ideas. Amber was the perfect sounding board—she pushed me when my concepts got too safe, reined me in when they got too crazy.
"This one," Amber tapped a drawing of an asymmetrical jacket with intricate beadwork. "This screams you. But bolder. More metallic. What if you used that technique you did on the green dress from the party?"
I grabbed my sketchbook, already seeing it. "Yes. And if I pair it with the wide-leg trousers, but in silk instead of wool?—"
"Now you're talking."
But then Amber noticed the plushie I'd abandoned when Adele called.
"Yes, why, that looks exactly like an asymmetrical skirt with a slit and exquisite beading," Amber deadpanned.
I slid a glance at her. "Would you mind your business?"
"You said you had too much work and needed company. Instead, I find you making a plushie. Adorable, by the way."
I picked up the red panda plushie and wiggled it at her.
She reached out for it. "She's going to love this. Although, you know she's going to chew on it, right?"
"That's why the eyes are sewn on like that. She won't be able to pull anything off or swallow it."
Since Gwen and Atticus returned, I'd switched to working directly for Gwen in marketing.
The extra money was great, and I'd realized I liked the independence.
I'd even insisted on paying my own co-op rent—until Miriam started mysteriously rejecting my payments, claiming everything was "taken care of. " Another mystery to solve.
Amber twirled on her stool. "Okay, fill me in on everything. How's it going with Lance?"
My fingers stilled on the plushie, and that awful, familiar wrench went through my heart. "I'd rather not talk about Lance."
"Right. But obviously, there's a lot going on there."
"I'm in my 'I don't give a flying fuck about a man' era. Especially one who turned out to be someone completely different from what I thought. No, thanks. I'm done with that."
Amber winced. "I don't think it's like that, Morgan."
"He as much as told me so." The ache bloomed in my chest whenever I thought about that moment in the hospital. His hands on me, my back against the cold wall. The way we'd almost...
Almost lost your panties to that man.
After everything that happened, my body had still betrayed me, still arched toward him like it remembered every touch. What did I get for that moment of weakness? A bodyguard stationed outside every day.
"It's okay. He's the trash, and I've taken him out," I said, trying to convince myself.
Amber laughed. "I like this attitude."
"Yeah, sure. Love it, too. Just wish I felt it." The words escaped before I could stop them.
I laughed, the tight feeling in my chest easing slightly. This was why I needed Amber around—she let me pretend everything was fine without calling me on my bullshit too hard. I was so absorbed in finishing the plushie that I almost didn't hear it.
A crash from somewhere near the front of the warehouse.
We both froze.
"Aren’t Anthony and Alex supposed to be outside?" Amber whispered.
My stomach twisted. "Yeah." The bodyguard situation suddenly felt very necessary. “Maybe something fell.”
Another crash. Closer this time.
Amber started toward the sound. I grabbed her wrist. "Don't. Girl, don’t you watch slasher movies? Where are you going?"
Despite my attempt at levity, my voice shook. Something was wrong. Every instinct screamed it. The warehouse felt different now—charged, dangerous.
Then the lights went out.
Absolute darkness.
Amber screamed.
Footsteps. Running toward us through the blackness.
"Move!" I hissed, grabbing my bag and shoving my sketches inside. "We need to go. Now."
We stumbled through the darkness, my hands trailing along worktables for guidance. Behind us, I could hear them—at least two sets of footsteps, maybe more.
"Can you see anything?" Amber whispered.
"No. Just stay close."
My heart pounded so hard I was sure they could hear it. This wasn't a robbery.
This was something else.
I fumbled for my bag, finding the small panic button Lance had insisted I carry. I'd rolled my eyes when he gave it to me. Now I pressed it with shaking fingers.
The lights flickered on.
I came face to face with a giant of a man—craggy features, hook nose, eyes like chips of ice. He looked at me the way a butcher looked at meat.
Amber screamed again.
Another man grabbed her from behind, clamping a hand over her mouth. When she struggled, he hit her. Hard. She crumpled.
"You son of a bitch!"
Rage consumed me. I kicked the big guy right in the nuts. He went down with a grunt of surprise.
I ran.
The front doors burst open. Anthony stormed in with two other armed men I didn't recognize.
"Back there!" I shouted, pointing. "They knocked out Amber!"
Anthony moved toward me, trying to pull me aside. "We need to get you out of here."
"My friend?—"
That's when the gunfire started.
Glass exploded around us. Anthony went down, blood blooming across his chest like a horrible flower. His eyes found mine, surprised, before he collapsed.
I barely had time to register it before someone grabbed my arm. I swung my bag, nailing them in the face, and ran. My lungs burned, my legs shaking with adrenaline.
Anthony fired off shots from the floor. One hit the guy who had grabbed me. He cursed, tumbling.
I ran back to Amber. She was unconscious, a bruise already forming on her cheek. Her chest rose and fell steadily, the only reassurance I had that she was alive.
"Amber! Oh my God, Amber!"
Panic surged, but I forced myself to think. To focus.
Then it hit me.
This wasn't about Gwen and Atticus.
Someone was after me .
Carefully, I pulled Amber up, supporting her weight against me. There was no way I was leaving her behind. Not a chance. I might not have Lance's strength or training, but I wasn't going to abandon my friend.
As I struggled to move with Amber, Alex rushed to help, taking most of her weight.
"Where can we go?" I asked him, my voice shaking.
"Storage room," he directed. "Back corner. It has a lock."
Together, we half-carried, half-dragged Amber through the co-op, the sounds of fighting echoing behind us. Every few steps I glanced back, terrified we were being followed.
When we reached the storage room, Alex kicked the door open, then helped me lower Amber to the floor. I immediately checked her breathing again, relieved to find it steady.
"Stay here," Alex ordered. "Lock the door. I'll lead them away."
Before I could protest, he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him.
With trembling hands, I turned the lock, then slid down beside Amber, cradling her head in my lap. My fingers shook as I pulled out my phone.
I hit Lance's number without hesitation.
The phone barely rang once.
"Morgan." Not a question. He already knew.
Just hearing him say my name sent a thrill through me I didn't want to acknowledge. Some primal part of me recognized safety in his voice, even as my rational brain screamed warnings.
"Lance," I gasped. "Someone broke into the co-op. There's gunfire—Amber's hurt—we're locked in the storage room at the back?—"
"I'm en route." His voice went lethal, completely controlled. In the background, I could hear tires squealing, the roar of an engine being pushed to its limits. "Stay exactly where you are. Don't open that door for anyone but me. Do you understand?"
The command in his tone should have pissed me off. Instead, it steadied my nerves like nothing else could. This was the Lance who'd strangled a man in a hospital stairwell without breaking a sweat. This Lance could handle anything.
"Okay," I whispered. "Please hurry."
"Two minutes. Keep talking to me." His breathing was harsh over the phone.
I could hear gunfire in the distance, shouts, and the crash of equipment. I pulled Amber closer, as if I could shield her from whatever was happening.
"Lance," I whispered, my voice breaking. "What's happening?"
The pause lasted a beat too long.
“Hang tight, Spitfire. I’m coming for you.”