Chapter 31 – Morgan
Chapter Thirty-One
One Shot..One Opportunity…
Morgan
I couldn't believe my eyes.
The backstage area was a hive of professional activity—hair and makeup artists at multiple stations, models in various stages of preparation, seamstresses making last-minute adjustments.
My entire collection—the one I'd been convinced was lost forever—hung on racks in perfect order, every piece exactly as I'd envisioned.
Including designs I thought were gone.
"How?" I whispered, running my fingers along a beaded bodice that I'd sketched months ago but never had the resources to create. The pattern was immaculate; each crystal placed with precision that would have taken me weeks to achieve.
"Lance found your original sketches," My sister’s voice came from behind me, appearing at my side wearing a thing robe with her hair and make-up done. "The ones from your first portfolio. He had them restored, enhanced, brought to life."
I shook my head, still unable to process what I was seeing. "That's not possible. I only finished half the collection before..." Before the shooting. Before everything went to hell. "I was going to call Adele for an extension. I thought I'd blown my one shot."
Gwen’s expression softened. "Apparently, Lance had other plans I guess. I knew that man loved you, but wow."
My heart stuttered as I moved to the next rack, where designs I'd only dreamed of hung in stunning reality.
A structural blazer with hand-beaded lapels.
The asymmetrical evening gown I'd sketched but never attempted.
Even the experimental piece with the gravity-defying silhouette that I'd been too intimidated to try.
"There are twenty-three pieces here," I realized, counting quickly. "I only submitted sketches for twenty."
"Some are from your earliest work," Gwen confirmed. "We were able to recover some from the original hard drives just barely. But Lance tracked down every sketch."
My throat tightened as I recognized a design from my very first portfolio—a coat I'd dreamed up in design school, ambitious and structurally complex in a way that had been beyond my skills at the time.
Now it hung before me, realized in luxurious wool with hand-finished details that must have taken days to complete.
"He did all this? How? When?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears, thin and uncertain.
"He's been working on this almost non-stop for five days." Gwen hesitated, then added quietly, "Beading, sewing, you name it. I watched him spend twelve hours straight on the beadwork for that finale piece, refusing to let anyone else touch it."
The image of Lance—precise, controlled, dangerous Lance—hunched over delicate beadwork made something twist painfully in my chest. I could see the evidence of it, too, now that I was looking.
Tiny pinprick scars on his fingertips where needles had slipped.
The kind of marks that came from pushing through exhaustion and inexperience because the result mattered more than comfort.
"Why would he do this?" I whispered, though part of me already knew.
She gave me a look that suggested the answer should be obvious. "The same reason he does everything where you're concerned, Morgan," she whispered, then turned to go get dressed.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I turned away, overwhelmed by emotions I couldn't name. Gratitude, confusion, a fragile hope I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
After what had happened between us—after the shooting, after he'd pulled away and gone distant on me, convinced he was somehow responsible for my pain—this gesture was almost too much to comprehend.
Too grand.
Too perfect.
Too heartbreaking.
Because it showed me exactly what I'd been missing while he'd been torturing himself with guilt, that Lance, for all his self-recrimination and emotional walls, would sacrifice anything for my happiness. Even his own peace of mind.
"Morgan." His voice came from behind me, deep and familiar, sending a tremor through my body despite everything. "We should discuss the show order. I have some suggestions, but it's your collection. Your call."
I turned to face him, struck immediately by how exhausted he looked.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, deeper than I'd ever seen them.
His usually immaculate appearance was rumpled, shirt wrinkled as if he'd been wearing it for days.
When he handed me a tablet with the proposed lineup, I caught sight of his hands—those capable, deadly hands that had learned to create beauty for me.
Tiny puncture wounds dotted his fingertips. Evidence of countless hours spent mastering techniques that were foreign to him.
"You look terrible," I blurted out, my heart clenching at the visible proof of his exhaustion.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a small, tired smile that made my chest ache. "Thank you. The honesty is refreshing."
"When was the last time you slept? Actually slept?"
He shrugged, dismissive in that way that meant he'd been running on pure determination and caffeine. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that everything's ready. "
The fierce pride in his voice made my heart stutter. He'd done all this—moved mountains, learned new skills, sacrificed sleep and comfort—not to manipulate me or win my forgiveness, but simply to ensure I had my chance. My success.
And he expected nothing in return. Lance was already preparing to fade into the background, to let me shine without his shadow falling across my moment.
I studied the show order on the tablet, making mental adjustments while hyper-aware of his presence beside me. "This looks good, but I want to switch pieces seven and nine. The color progression will be stronger that way."
He nodded immediately, making the change. "Whatever you want."
The simple phrase lingered between us, weighted with meaning beyond the immediate context. Whatever you want. As if he'd give me anything—everything—if only I'd ask. If only I'd let him.
"Lance—" I began, not even sure what I wanted to say.
He shook his head, cutting me off gently but firmly. "You don't have to say anything. This is your day. I'll stay out of your way."
Before I could respond, Adele Beekman swept into the backstage area, trailing assistants and photographers like a fashion empress holding court. Her sharp eyes took in the scene, widening with unmistakable approval as she spotted the complete collection.
"Morgan!" she called, striding toward me on stilettos that could double as weapons. "This is magnificent! When you said you were expanding the collection, I had no idea you meant something on this scale. This is quality work."
Panic fluttered in my chest. What could I say? That I hadn't actually completed these pieces myself? That this miracle had been orchestrated by the man standing silently beside me, asking for no credit?
Before I could formulate a response, Lance stepped smoothly into the breach with the kind of social grace that reminded me he'd been raised in elite circles, even dangerous ones.
"Morgan has been keeping some aspects of the collection under wraps," he said, his voice carrying just the right note of conspiratorial pride. "She wanted the full impact to be a surprise. You know how artists are about revealing their process too early."
Adele's gaze flickered between us, shrewd and assessing in that way that had made her a legend in fashion circles.
But whatever she saw in Lance's expression seemed to satisfy her.
"Well, consider me surprised. And thoroughly impressed.
" She turned to me, clasping my hands in hers with genuine warmth.
"This is exceptional work, Morgan. Career-defining. We need to discuss Paris immediately."
Relief washed through me, followed by a wave of gratitude so intense it nearly brought me to my knees. Lance had not only saved my collection—he'd positioned it perfectly, ensuring I received full credit while protecting the narrative of my artistic vision.
As Adele moved away to examine individual pieces more closely, murmuring appreciatively to her assistants, I turned to Lance with emotion closing my throat.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words entirely inadequate for what I was feeling.
His expression softened, vulnerability flickering across features that usually remained carefully controlled. "You don't have to thank me, Morgan."
"Yes, I do." I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "No one has ever done anything like this for me. Ever. I don't even know how to process what you've given me."
Something flashed in his eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. "I should have been there more. Instead of pulling away like a coward because I couldn't handle seeing you hurt."
The raw honesty in his voice made my heart twist. I could see the weight he was carrying, the guilt over how he'd handled things after the shooting—how he'd gone distant when I'd needed him most. Before I could respond, a call came from across the room—models needed for final lineup confirmation.
The moment slipped away as we were both pulled into pre-show chaos.
For the next hour, I was swept up in a whirlwind of controlled madness.
Final adjustments to garments that fit the models like they'd been custom-made for their bodies—which, I realized with another jolt of amazement, they probably had been.
Hair and makeup checks that transformed already stunning women into otherworldly creatures.
Lighting tests that would showcase every detail of the construction techniques I'd labored over.
Through it all, Lance was a steadying presence—always nearby, anticipating needs before they arose, solving problems before they became crises. And watching me. Always watching me, with an intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness despite everything unresolved between us.
As the first guests began to arrive—I could hear the murmur of excited voices, the click of cameras—I found myself backstage with the models, giving last-minute instructions while fighting a surge of nerves.
"Morgan."
I turned to find Lance standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable but his presence immediately calming.
"It's time," he said simply.
I nodded, my heart pounding hard enough that I was sure he could hear it. "I know."
He hesitated for a moment, then crossed the room to stand before me. "Before you go out there, I want you to know something."
The intensity in his gaze made it difficult to breathe. "What?"
"You were always going to succeed." His voice was low, certain, carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "With or without me. Without any of this. You are extraordinary, Morgan Crispin Becker. And I have never been more proud of anyone in my life."
The sincerity in his words stole the breath from my lungs. I stared up at him, seeing past the exhaustion, past the carefully maintained control, to the man beneath—the one who had spent days without sleep and learned skills he'd never needed, all to make my dreams come true.
"Lance—"
He shook his head, cutting me off gently but decisively. "Go. Shine. This is your moment, and you've earned every second of it."
Before I could respond, he stepped back, creating physical distance between us. The message was clear, this was mine. My triumph. My stage.
The show itself was a blur of controlled chaos—lights, music, the rhythmic percussion of heels on the runway.
Each model emerged to gasps and murmurs of appreciation, the audience clearly captivated by designs they hadn't expected.
By vision that had been transformed from concept to reality through what could only be described as a miracle.
As the finale piece took the runway—that structural marvel of silver beading that caught the light like liquid starlight—I searched the crowd desperately for Lance. He wasn't in the front row with Gwen and Atticus, where I'd expected to find him. Wasn't visible anywhere in the VIP section.
Then I caught sight of him, standing alone in the shadows at the very back of the venue. Watching silently, his face showing a pride so fierce and pure it took my breath away. He'd positioned himself where he could see everything while remaining invisible—typical Lance, supporting from the shadows.
When the last model disappeared backstage and it was time for my bow, I found myself hesitating at the entrance to the runway. The weight of the moment crashed over me—this was it. This was my moment, the culmination of everything I'd worked for.
And Lance had made it possible.
I wanted to find him, to pull him onto that runway with me, to share this triumph because it belonged to both of us. But even as the thought formed, I knew he wouldn't come. This was my victory, and he would never let his presence diminish it.
So I stepped onto that runway alone, into blinding lights and thunderous applause that seemed to go on forever. The crowd rose to their feet—buyers, editors, fashion elite who rarely showed such enthusiasm. For me. For my work. For vision that had somehow been transformed into reality.
As I took my bow, I found Lance again in that shadowed corner.
He wasn't applauding—his hands hung at his sides as he simply watched me with an expression of such profound satisfaction that it made my heart ache.
Like seeing me succeed was reward enough.
Like this moment was worth every sleepless night, every pricked finger, every sacrifice he'd made.
When I finally stepped backstage, the chaos was immediate. Buyers wanting to place orders. Fashion editors requesting interviews. Adele already talking about expanding the collection for international markets.
But all I could think about was the man who'd made it possible, who'd asked for nothing and expected even less.
Through the crowd of congratulations, I kept searching for him. When I finally spotted Lance near the exit, he was already putting on his jacket, preparing to slip away unnoticed.
Our eyes met across the room, and he gave me a small nod—acknowledgment of the success we'd achieved, permission to celebrate without him. Then he turned toward the door.
"Lance, wait!" I called, but my voice was lost in the chaos of praise around me.
By the time I extracted myself from the crowd, he was gone.