Chapter 30 – Lance
Chapter Thirty
Dreams Come True…
Lance
"More to the left. No—my left, not yours." I gestured impatiently as two crew members adjusted the lighting rig. "It needs to hit that center panel just right when she walks."
The technicians exchanged weary glances but shifted the equipment accordingly. They'd been dealing with my micromanagement since dawn, and it was barely 8 AM.
I checked my watch again. Three hours until I had to pick Morgan up from the hospital—she was finally being discharged today. Then straight here for what she thought was a simple venue walkthrough before her presentation to Adele tomorrow.
"Lance." Miriam materialized at my side, clipboard in hand, her usually calm demeanor showing rare signs of strain. "Jenny says the beading on the finale piece needs another hour, minimum."
"We don't have another hour." I dragged a hand through my hair, scanning the organized chaos of the backstage area. "Tell her to bring it here. I'll finish it myself."
Miriam's eyebrows shot up. "You'll?—"
"I've been practicing." I rolled up my sleeves, revealing fingers peppered with tiny puncture wounds—badges of my crash course in couture beading techniques. "It's not that different from field sutures."
She studied me for a moment, something like understanding softening her gaze. "I'll get her."
The venue's backstage area had been transformed overnight into a makeshift atelier.
Sewing machines hummed continuously. Seamstresses hunched over intricate beadwork, fingers flying with practiced precision.
Seven models rotated through fittings, each wearing pieces that five days ago had only existed in recovered sketches or Morgan's frantic, sleep-deprived descriptions.
Five days. That's all I'd had to pull this off. Five days, a small fortune, and a team working around the clock.
I moved through the space, checking progress, making minute adjustments, and keeping everyone on task.
Not that they needed my hovering—I'd hired the best in the business, paying triple their usual rates for the rush job.
But standing still felt impossible when everything inside me was screaming to do more, fix more, be better.
My phone buzzed. Atticus.
"Tell me she's ready for discharge," I said without preamble.
"She's dressed and cleared by the doctors. Paperwork's done. But Lance, she's panicking about her collection. Keeps saying she needs to call Adele to ask for an extension, that she doesn't have enough pieces finished."
"She has no idea?—"
"That you've been recreating her entire collection? None. She thinks everything is still sitting unfinished in her studio. She's convinced she's going to fail, that she'll have to tell Adele she can't deliver."
The knot in my chest tightened. Morgan had been spiraling about her designs from her hospital bed, convinced she'd blown her one shot with Adele, that the opportunity of a lifetime was slipping through her fingers because she'd been too injured to work.
All while I'd kept my distance, convinced it was what she needed after my spectacular fuck-up when I'd tried to send her away to Gwen and Atticus's.
What a goddamn coward I'd been.
"See you at eleven," I said, already scanning the room for the next crisis to avert. "I'll pick her up from the hospital and bring her straight here."
I hung up before he could respond, slipping the phone back into my pocket as I spotted Jenny approaching with the finale dress—an architectural marvel of bias-cut silk and cascading beadwork that would catch the light like liquid silver.
"Mr. Lakewood," she began, already looking apologetic. "The pattern on the back panel?—"
"Show me." I cleared a space on a nearby table. "We'll fix it now."
As she spread out the gown, my mind flashed to the first time I'd seen Morgan's designs.
Not the physical garments, but the way she'd described them to me one night in the darkness of our bedroom, her voice soft with wonder as her hands sketched invisible patterns in the air.
The reverence in her words, the passion that lit her up from within.
And I'd nearly lost her. Through my own fear, my own stubborn belief that she was better off without me.
"Here," Jenny pointed to a section where the beaded pattern seemed to stutter. "We need to maintain the gradient, but the supplies?—"
"I've got what we need." I reached for the specialized case I'd kept at my side for days. "The iridescent crystals came in from Milan this morning."
She blinked, clearly surprised. "Those are impossible to source on short notice."
"Nothing's impossible with enough money and motivation." I opened the case, revealing rows of precisely organized materials. "I'll take it from here."
"Sir, with all due respect, this level of detailing requires years of?—"
"I'm a quick study." I met her gaze steadily. "And I've been practicing."
The truth was, I'd barely slept in five days, spending every free moment hunched over practice pieces, learning techniques that ordinarily took years to master. My fingers were raw, my vision blurry from strain, but I didn't care.
For Morgan, I'd learn to move mountains. Learning to sew was nothing by comparison.
Jenny hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I'll check on the other pieces, then."
As she left, I threaded a needle with practiced precision, despite the tremor in my hands from exhaustion and too much caffeine. The work was exacting, requiring complete concentration—each bead placed just so, each stitch invisible, the pattern flowing like water across the fabric.
There was something meditative about it. The repetitive motion, the focus required. It quieted the noise in my head, the constant replay of Morgan's face when I'd walked away from her at the hospital. The hurt in her eyes. The walls coming up, brick by brick, shutting me out.
I'd deserved it. Every bit of her anger, her distance "Looking good, Mr. Seamstress."
I glanced up to find Micah leaning against the table, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. The sight of him in the same clothes as yesterday, with dark circles under his eyes, was strangely comforting. I wasn't the only one who cared enough about Morgan to lose sleep.
"You get the shoes?" I asked, returning to my work.
"All fifteen pairs." He set down the bag. "Custom dyed to match each outfit, as requested. Cost a bloody fortune and required threatening the cobbler with bodily harm, but here they are."
I nodded, not looking up. "Thanks."
"You know this is insane, right?" Micah leaned closer, watching my hands work. "Twenty complete looks in five days? Professional design houses take months for this kind of collection."
"Twenty-three," I corrected. "I added three more based on sketches I found in her old portfolios."
Micah let out a low whistle. "You really think this will work? That she'll forgive you?"
My hands stilled for a fraction of a second. "This isn't about forgiveness. It's about making sure she gets her shot. The recognition she deserves."
"Bullshit." Micah's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "This is the most elaborate apology I've ever seen. You're literally sewing your regrets into every stitch."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Because he wasn't entirely wrong.
"I'm not judging," he continued, softening. "Hell, I think it's romantic as fuck. Just hoping you've thought about what happens after."
"After?"
"After you pull off this grand gesture. After she sees what you've done. What then?"
I set down the needle, finally looking up at him. "Then I try again. To be the partner she needs instead of the protector I think she wants."
Micah studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Good enough for me." He straightened, clapping his hands together. "Now, where do you need me? I've been reliably informed that my beading skills are 'passable for a beginner.'"
A commotion at the entrance caught our attention. Pierce appeared, his expression grim. "We've got a problem."
I froze. "What?"
"Three of the models called in sick. Food poisoning from the same restaurant last night."
My stomach dropped. "How long to find replacements?"
Pierce checked his watch. "Two hours, minimum. It's fashion week—everyone's booked."
"That's not an option." I was already calculating alternatives. "We need models who fit the samples exactly. No time for alterations."
"I figured." Pierce gestured behind him, where Gwen was striding into the backstage area, looking determined. "Called in reinforcements."
"What are you—" I began, then stopped as understanding dawned. "No. Absolutely not."
"Too late," Gwen said, approaching us. "I've already called my agency friends. Two professional models are on their way. For the third slot, you've got me."
"You gave birth less than three months ago," I protested.
She arched an eyebrow. "And? I'm back to my pre-baby weight, and Morgan is my sister. I will shimmy into something to help her." She gestured to her body. "This is on loaner from God, so take advantage while you can."
"What about Morgan? You're supposed to be keeping her distracted."
"Atticus took over. Claimed he wanted brother-sister bonding time before they arrive." Her expression softened. "Lance, let me help. You're not the only one who loves her."
Something in my chest loosened fractionally at her words. At the reminder that for all her solitary nature, Morgan wasn't alone. She had people—a family she'd chosen—who would move heaven and earth for her.
Including me.
"Fine," I conceded. "But you're not wearing the finale piece. That one's too architectural—needs professional training."
Gwen's smile was triumphant. "Deal. Now, where do you need me?"
The next two hours passed in a whirlwind of final adjustments, technical checks, and narrowly averted disasters. Somewhere in the midst of it all, I found myself standing before a mirror, adjusting my tie for the third time, trying to calm the nervous energy that threatened to consume me.
My phone buzzed with a text from Atticus.
Atticus: 10 minutes out.
"It's time," I called out, loud enough for the room to hear. "Places, everyone. Final checks."
The atmosphere shifted instantly, energy crackling through the space as everyone moved with renewed purpose. Hair and makeup teams made last touch-ups. Models lined up in order of appearance. Technicians ran final lighting tests.
I surveyed it all, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. Everything had to be perfect. For Morgan.
"Lance." Miriam caught my arm as I moved toward the entrance. "Where will you be during all this?"
I hesitated. "Backstage. Making sure everything runs smoothly."
Her brow furrowed. "You should be front row. She'll want to see you."
"No." I shook my head firmly. "This is her moment. I don't want to distract from that."
Or worse, ruin it with my presence if she wasn't ready to see me.
And then, I heard her voice.
And suddenly we were out of time. In the hallway, I heard her voice and I could picture Atticus in tow.
"I don't understand—Atticus, what's going on? Why are all these people here? I thought we agreed to a venue walk through. I didn’t realize there’d be people here.
The presentation's not until tomorrow, and I need to call Adele about an extension—I don't have enough pieces finished?—"
Morgan appeared in the doorway, stopping abruptly as she took in the scene before her. The fully-staffed hair and makeup stations. The racks of completed garments—her designs, brought to life in exquisite detail. The models lined up, ready for final styling.
Her face went blank with shock, lips parting, eyes widening as she scanned the room.
"What..." she began, her voice barely audible. "What is this?"
Atticus gave me a nod before backing out of the room and taking everyone else with him. "Your collection, Morgan. All of it."
She shook her head; disbelief etched in every line of her face.
"This isn't... I didn't finish these. I've been stuck in the hospital, I couldn't work—" She moved forward as if in a trance, reaching out to touch the nearest garment.
"This is the piece I was struggling with.
The beading pattern was too complex; I didn't have the time or supplies to?—"
Her voice broke as she recognized the design. "This is exactly how I imagined it."
She turned, eyes searching the room frantically. "Who did this? How?—"
Her gaze landed on me as I stepped out of the shadows, and everything around us seemed to fade away—the bustle of preparation, the murmured conversations, the nervous energy of the dress rehearsal. There was only Morgan, her eyes wide with confusion and something else I couldn't quite name.
"Lance?" Her voice was soft, uncertain.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "Surprise."