Chapter 22 – Morgan
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Dish Best Served Cold
Morgan
The champagne bubbles danced on my tongue as I laughed at something Devon was saying.
Two days since the gala, and I should have been a wreck. Instead, I felt... almost happy.
Maybe it was the way Lance's eyes tracked my every movement across the room. Maybe it was the satisfaction of watching my father keep his distance from me, though he attended for the sake of appearance. Or maybe it was the buzz from successfully pulling off a heist at his grandfather's estate.
Whatever it was, I was riding the high.
The engagement party swirled around me in a blur of congratulations and clinking glasses. Gwen had thrown it together in forty-eight hours, claiming we needed to maintain appearances. Keep the ruse alive. Make our relationship look legitimate to anyone who might be watching.
Including Lance's family.
But honestly? I was enjoying myself. Even if the engagement was fake, the celebration was real. And after everything we'd been through, we deserved something good.
I smoothed my hands down the red silk dress I'd chosen—a variation on one of my designs for Adele, with a cinched waist and flared frayed hem, intricate beading catching the light at my waist. Lance's eyes had gone dark when he'd seen me in it earlier.
We still hadn't talked. Not really. Just fell into each other's arms every chance we got, using sex to fill the silence where words should be.
The last two days had been a blur of his hands, his mouth. Whispered words of how good I felt. It was like we couldn’t stop. Hell, He’d had me bent over my sewing desk in my old room here not an hour ago while everyone else got ready.
Each time was desperate, hungry, like we were trying to make up for all the time we'd lost. But every touch, every kiss, every breathless moment left me wanting more than just his body.
I wanted to know what we were doing. Where was this going? What "figuring it out" actually meant. Did this mean that when we married, I wouldn’t seek a divorce in the end? That I’d be part of his family forever? Could I really do that?
It had all seemed easier when I’d convinced herself it was just pretend. But now... now she wasn’t sure what any of it meant.
But tonight wasn't about that. Tonight was about champagne and laughter and pretending everything was perfect.
"There's the woman of the hour."
I turned to find Devon approaching, his familiar smile a welcome sight. He looked good in a tailored suit that highlighted his athletic build. I still couldn’t believe he’d come back from oversees just for me.
"Devon," I said, genuine relief flooding through me. "You came."
"And miss the chance to see Morgan Crispin-Becker settling down?" He raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing. "With a man you swore you hated, no less? Not a chance."
I winced, remembering our last conversation where I'd gone on a twenty-minute rant about how insufferable Lance was. "Yeah, about that..."
Devon laughed warmly. "I knew it."
"Knew what?"
"The whole time you were telling me how much you despised the guy, you had that look in your eyes." He grinned. "The same one you get when you're lying about not eating the last cookie."
I scoffed, trying to hide my discomfort. "I do not have a look."
"You absolutely do." Devon sipped his champagne. "So, when did all this happen? Last I saw you, you were calling him—and I quote—' an arrogant, controlling, infuriating specimen of everything wrong with the male species.'"
Heat crawled up my neck. "Things... changed."
"Obviously." His gaze grew more serious. "You happy, Morgan? For real?"
I glanced across the room to where Lance stood with Pierce, his profile sharp against the backdrop of twinkling city lights. As if sensing my gaze, he looked up, his eyes locking with mine for a brief moment that made my breath catch.
"Yeah," I said, surprised by how true it felt. "I think I am."
Devon followed my gaze and smiled. "Good. You deserve to be happy."
Before I could respond, Devon leaned in and pressed a friendly kiss to my cheek. "Be happy, Morgan. Even if it's not the way you planned."
"Morgan!" Clarissa's voice cut through the conversation.
I turned to find my step-mother approaching, her eyes bright with tears. She looked older than when I'd last seen her, more fragile, but her smile was genuine.
"Clarissa." I set down my champagne and pulled her into a hug. "I'm so glad you came back from Portugal. How did closing out your affairs go?"
"It went well, thank you for asking," she said, holding me tight. "I couldn't miss celebrating your engagement. Though I have to admit, I was surprised to get the invitation. The last I heard, you and Lance had..." She trailed off delicately, her eyes searching my face with concern.
I could see the questions there—the gentle confusion of someone who'd watched me fall apart after the breakup, only to return from Portugal to find us engaged. She was too polite to pry, but her maternal instincts were clearly worried.
"It's complicated," I said softly. "But we worked things out."
Her smile was warm but uncertain. "I can see that. I'm just glad you're happy, sweetheart."
Gwen appeared at my elbow, sliding into the conversation with practiced ease. "We need to talk to you about that," she said gently. "Both of us. Can we steal you for a minute?"
Clarissa's eyes flickered between us, concern creeping in. "Of course."
We found a quiet corner away from the crowd, near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Manhattan's glittering skyline.
The party continued behind us—laughter and conversation creating a warm buzz, servers weaving through guests with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, the soft jazz quartet playing in the background.
"Clarissa," I started, my throat suddenly tight. "Gwen and I have been talking, and we want you to come back. To stay in the house."
" Your house," Gwen added firmly. "For as long as you want it to be."
Clarissa's face crumpled, tears spilling over. "Girls, I—I can't. Your father made it very clear that I wasn't welcome."
"Fuck what our father thinks," I said, my voice harder than I intended. "That house was Mom's. It should have been yours all along. You took care of us when she couldn't. You were more of a mother to us than she ever was."
"You were family," Gwen said softly. "You still are. This is where you belong."
Clarissa pressed her hands to her mouth, shoulders shaking. "I've missed you girls so much. Missed being part of your lives."
"Then come home," I whispered. "Please."
She nodded through her tears, unable to speak. After a moment, she managed, "What about your father? He won't be happy about this."
My jaw tightened. "We'll be dealing with him tonight."
As if summoned by my words, I spotted my father across the room. He looked every inch the successful businessman in his expensive suit, glad-handing Atticus's associates like he belonged here. The sight of him made my skin crawl.
"Excuse me," I said to Clarissa and Gwen. "It's time."
I caught Micah's eye across the room and nodded. He immediately moved toward my father, Atticus flanking him from the other side. Within minutes, they were steering him toward the library, their movements casual but purposeful.
I followed, my heart pounding with each step.
The library door closed behind us with a soft click, sealing us off from the party. My father looked around, taking in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the rich mahogany furniture, the subtle displays of wealth and power.
"Impressive," he said, settling into one of the leather chairs like he owned the place. "Though I suppose this is what happens when you marry well, isn't it, Morgan?"
The condescension in his voice made my teeth clench. "Sit down, Dad. We need to talk."
"About what? Your little fake engagement?" He laughed, the sound cold and cutting. "Nobody would actually want you unless it was arranged. You've always been a disappointment, but this charade is a new low, even for you. And marrying that psychopath no less."
Heat flashed through me, but I forced myself to stay calm. "Things are going to be different from now on."
"Different how? You think pretending to marry Lakewood?" He leaned back, smirking. "Your little fashion life is forfeit, Morgan. It always was. You're not good enough for this world, and deep down, you know it. And naming if after your mother, Saskia, foolish."
The words hit their mark, just like they always did. The same criticisms he'd been lobbing at me since I was old enough to have dreams of my own. But this time, instead of shrinking under his attack, I felt something else.
Fury .
"Careful how you speak to my wife."
Lance's voice cut through the room like a blade. I turned to find him in the doorway, his presence filling the space with controlled violence. Every line of his body screamed danger, from the predatory stillness of his stance to the cold death in his eyes. The warm jade going to icy green.
"I'd hate for us to have a misunderstanding," he continued, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.
My father's face went ashen. "Are you going to let him threaten me?" he sputtered, looking at me.
"Not yet, baby," I said to Lance, tilting my head like I was considering the question seriously.
"As far as I'm concerned, yes," Lance replied, his voice deadly calm.
Something hot unfurled in my chest at his words, at the way he stood there ready to destroy anyone who dared hurt me. This man—this deadly, gorgeous, complicated man—was mine. And I was done letting anyone make me feel small.
"Just so we're clear, Dad," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "I left him not for what he did to you. Though, baby, that was a little theatrical."
Lance shrugged, unrepentant. "I can't help it. I was taught flair."