Chapter 28 – Lance
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Past Will Always Haunt You…
Lance
With all the stress of everything, I figured it was a good time to take Morgan on a date. I wanted to show her that while we’d gotten married to protect her, that wasn’t all this was to me.
Not to mention, I needed to hit that pressure release valve too. No one thought clearly under stress. So, alleviating some of it would keep me sharp.
Security was a factor of course. I’d worked with Pierce to have an advance team at the restaurant and for her surprise after dinner.
Dinner had been fucking perfect. Le Bernardin, corner table, Morgan practically glowing as she told me about Adele's feedback on her designs. The woman had been over the moon—apparently Adele had called her work "revolutionary" and "exactly what fashion needs right now."
"She wants me to expand three of the pieces," Morgan had said, eyes bright with excitement as she gestured with her wine glass. "And she thinks the beadwork on the evening gown could be the signature element for the entire collection."
Her eyes were shining as she gesticulated and all I could do was smile. I'd watch my wife be brilliant and beautiful and completely unguarded any day. No stress, no worry about deadlines—just pure joy at having her talent recognized.
"I still have so much work to do," she continued, her smile wide. "The revisions she wants will take a minute, but I think I have enough time, and I need to finish the other pieces, but Lance—she loves them. She actually loves them."
For two hours, I'd basked in her happiness, letting myself believe we'd finally found our rhythm. That maybe, just maybe, we could have this—normal date nights, celebrating her success, building a real life together.
Walking out of the restaurant, her hand tucked into mine, everything felt perfect.
Morgan was still bubbling with excitement, making plans for her revisions, talking about fabric choices and construction techniques.
The stress that had been eating at her for weeks was gone, replaced by pure creative energy.
"I know exactly how to fix the neckline issue on piece twelve," she said, squeezing my hand. "And if I can source that silk we saw in the garment district, the drape will be perfect."
I loved seeing her like this.
I hoped she loved where I was taking her. When she'd spotted the poster for Indira Sanjay's trunk show a week ago and pressed her face to the gallery window like a kid at Christmas, making the call to the gallery owner had been a no-brainer. And I'd made a call for us to see it tonight.
Morgan deserved this. She'd worked so damn hard. And I hadn't made things easy.
I held Morgan's hand as we walked down Capstone Street, her excitement infectious.
She glanced up at me, lips curving into that grin that always made my chest tight. "So what? You just decided we needed a date night?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "Things have been a little intense. Figured we could use some downtime to celebrate you."
"This is the best celebration ever," she said, practically bouncing on her toes. "I can't believe Adele loved the pieces so much. And now this? I feel like I'm dreaming."
Morgan chuckled, swinging our joined hands. "You know, I was so stressed about those submissions. But seeing her reaction—God, Lance, she actually said she was proud to showcase my work."
I squeezed her hand. "Because you're fucking brilliant."
Her voice softened. "I finally feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. With my work, with you—everything just feels right. I’m happy."
Fuck. Even after everything we'd been through, she could still level me with a few simple words.
The warehouse was dimly lit when I guided Morgan through the entrance, her excitement barely contained.
She hesitated at the threshold. "Um. You do know this looks like a scene from a horror movie, right?"
I laughed. "Trust me, Spitfire. This is going to be worth it."
Inside, the space transformed. From an empty showroom into a stunning gallery. Soft spotlights illuminated mannequins positioned throughout the space, each one dressed in breathtaking designs.
Morgan froze. "Oh my God," she whispered. "Is this?—?"
I grinned, watching her face as recognition dawned. "Indira Sanjay's private showroom."
Her hands flew to her mouth. "Lance. You got us a private viewing ? How did you even—she never does private viewings. Ever."
"We're the only ones here. For the next two hours, this is all ours."
She turned to me so fast her ballet flats squeaked against the floor.
"You are the best husband ever."
Then she launched herself at me, and I caught her easily, spinning us both around as she laughed.
"Go," I said, setting her down. "Explore. Ask me questions I definitely can't answer about fashion."
For the next hour, I watched her fall in love. She moved from piece to piece with reverence, explaining techniques, comparing Sanjay's methods to her own work.
"Look at this seaming," she said, pointing to an intricate detail. "See how she's created a dimension without bulk? That's exactly the problem I was having with piece twelve."
She was taking mental notes, studying construction methods, her creative mind working overtime. The feedback from Adele had given her new confidence, and now she was seeing possibilities everywhere.
"I know how to fix the neckline now," she said suddenly, turning to me with bright eyes. "Seeing how she handles the curve here—I can adapt that technique."
"You're incredible," I said, meaning it completely. "Watching you work through problems in real time? It's better than any show."
She blushed, but her smile was radiant. "I just feel so inspired. Between Adele's feedback and seeing this, I know exactly what I need to do for the revisions."
“I’m glad this inspired you.”
"This is incredible. Thank you."
I searched her gaze. "Morgan?—"
"I'm happy, Lance," she said simply. "Really, truly happy.
Even with all the crazy stuff with your family, even with the stress of the collection—I'm exactly where I want to be.
" She stepped closer, her hands sliding up my chest. "Thank you.
For this, for believing in me, for making me feel like I can conquer the world. "
I took both her hands, kissing them. "You can conquer the world, Spitfire. I'm just lucky I get to watch you do it."
She stood on her toes, pressing her lips to mine in a kiss that tasted like wine and promises and everything good in my life. Just as I was about to deepen the kiss, tell her exactly how much I loved her?—
Something shifted. A whisper of movement where there shouldn't be any. And then?—
A gunshot cracked through the space like thunder.
Morgan cried out, her hand flying to her left shoulder as blood bloomed against the pale fabric of her sweater. Not a graze—I could see the way she was favoring the arm, the way the bullet had torn through muscle and flesh.
My entire world telescoped down to that splash of red.
Someone had shot my wife.
Someone had shot Morgan.
Every rational thought evaporated, replaced by something primal and murderous. The beast my grandfather had created roared to life, demanding blood.
I lunged for her, shoving her behind the nearest mannequin as my eyes swept the space, cataloging shadows and potential threats.
"Stay down," I growled, pulling my Glock from its holster at the small of my back.
"Lance—"
"Stay the fuck down, Morgan."
Four figures emerged from the shadows between the displays, moving with the coordinated precision of professionals. They'd been waiting. Watching. This wasn't random—this was an ambush.
The first one, tall and lean with a face like carved granite, raised his weapon toward Morgan's hiding spot.
Not fucking happening.
I moved. Two bullets center mass before he could adjust his aim. He dropped like a marionette with cut strings.
The second shooter—built like a brick shithouse with arms covered in tattoos—swung his gun toward me. I rolled left, using a display case for cover as bullets chewed through the space where I'd been standing. Glass exploded, raining down like crystalline snow.
"Morgan, how bad?" I called out, ejecting my spent magazine and slamming in a fresh one.
"I can move it," she called back, voice tight with pain but steady. "Hurts like hell, but I'm okay."
The third shooter—compact, military bearing, obviously ex-special forces—was moving to flank Morgan's position while the fourth provided covering fire. I couldn't get a clean shot without exposing myself to the brick shithouse still laying down suppressing fire.
I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the display beside me and hurled it toward the overhead lights. Glass exploded in a shower of sparks, plunging sections of the showroom into shadow.
In the chaos, I moved. Shadow for shadow.
The brick shithouse spun toward the sound of breaking glass, muzzle flash strobing in the darkness. Too slow. Too late.
I closed the distance in heartbeats, my knife materializing in my hand like it had been waiting there all along. He saw me coming at the last second, tried to swing his gun around.
I drove the blade between his ribs, angling up toward his heart. My other hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his death rattle as his eyes went wide with shock.
Two down.
The ex-military guy was good—better than the others. He'd used the chaos to get within striking distance of Morgan's position, moving with the kind of tactical awareness that spoke of real training.
I could see him now, crouched behind a mannequin display, maybe ten feet from where Morgan was hiding. Close enough that my gunfire might hit her by accident.
Close enough to put a knife in her back.
Not today, motherfucker.
I sheathed my knife and pulled my backup piece—a compact .380 I kept ankle-holstered. Smaller caliber, less penetration, less chance of a through-and-through hitting Morgan.
But the fourth shooter had repositioned, and now I was caught in a crossfire. Bullets sparked off the concrete around me as I dove for new cover.
The military guy was almost on Morgan now. I could see him moving, low and fast, combat knife gleaming in his hand.
I had maybe three seconds before he reached her.
Fuck the crossfire.
I broke cover, sprinting toward Morgan's position as bullets whined past my head. The fourth shooter tracked me, his aim getting closer with each shot.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen.
Ten.
The military guy rose up behind Morgan's hiding spot, knife raised for a killing stroke.
I put two rounds in his back from fifteen feet away. He pitched forward, knife clattering across the concrete as his body convulsed and went still.
Three down.
The fourth shooter—young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of dead eyes that spoke of too many kills—had a clean shot at me now. I was exposed, no cover, nowhere to run.
I saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
Then Morgan stepped out from behind the mannequin, a pistol she'd grabbed from one of the fallen shooters steady in her good hand despite the blood soaking her left shoulder.
No.
Not her.
Anyone but her.
The crack of gunfire echoed through the space, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought she'd been hit again.
Then I saw the fourth shooter stumble backward, clutching his chest, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers. Blood spread across his shirt in a growing stain as he looked down in disbelief.
He tried to say something—maybe a curse, maybe a prayer—but only blood came out. He collapsed, his body hitting the ground with a wet thud.
Silence fell over the showroom like a shroud.
I stared at Morgan.
She was standing there in the aftermath, gun still raised, blood staining her sweater, her face pale but determined. She'd just killed a man to save my life without hesitation.
Without flinching.
Like she'd been born to it.
"Morgan," I said softly, my voice sounding strange and distant. "Baby, give me the gun."
She looked down at the weapon in her hands like she was seeing it for the first time. Her hands started to shake—small tremors that grew larger as the adrenaline began to fade.
"I killed him," she whispered.
"You saved my life," I said, moving toward her slowly, gently taking the gun from her trembling fingers. "You did what you had to do."
"I killed someone, Lance." Her voice cracked on my name. "I actually pulled the trigger and?—"
"Hey." I reached for her. "You're okay, I've got you."
The words hit me like physical blows. Because I recognized that tone, that hollow acceptance. I'd heard it in my own voice years ago, after my first kill.
What have I done to her?