Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MORGAN
A phone vibrates on my desk while I’m reading an incident report I should’ve delegated an hour ago.
At first, I don’t register it as anything but background noise. The desk is large, polished wood, empty except for what I allow on it. The phone looks wrong there. Too small. Too personal.
I glance at it, already knowing it isn’t mine. I haven’t had anyone in my office today except Constance—and I didn’t see her bring it in or set it down.
I make a mental note to tell her she left it behind and return to the report.
It vibrates again.
The screen lights up, the same number flashing across it, and something in me tightens. I ignore it. Her personal life isn’t my concern. I’ve made a habit of compartmentalizing for decades, and it’s one I don’t break easily.
The third vibration seems more insistent.
I glance at the number, then back to the report, irritation prickling under my skin. I don’t like interruptions. I don’t like unanswered calls sitting in my space like loose threads. I reach for my pen, underline a sentence that doesn’t sit right, and tell myself it isn’t my problem.
The office phone rings.
I don’t answer. It can go to the answering machine and Constance can deal with it when she gets back. When it rings again, sharp and impatient, I exhale slowly through my nose, get up and head out of my office, to her desk and pick it up.
“Nocturne Enterprise, this is Creed,” I say, my voice clipped.
There’s a pause on the other end, then a woman’s voice, careful and professional in the way people always are when they’re calling a company or business.
“Hello? We’re trying to reach Constance Hale.”
“She stepped out. She should be back in an hour or two,” I reply. “What is this regarding?”
Another pause, longer this time.
“I’m calling from Chance Hale’s school,” she says. “We’ve been trying to reach his mother. He’s very sick. Vomiting, fever, and he’s asking for her. We need someone to pick him up immediately.”
Who the fuck?
Chance Hale. Her last name. A child. The room suddenly feels too quiet; the hum of the world around me fading until all I can hear is the woman on the phone waiting for my response.
“I’ll be there,” I say, before I think about it.
There’s a brief pause on the other end. “Are you a parent or authorized pickup?”
“No,” I reply evenly. “I’m his mother’s employer. She’s unavailable at the moment, and I’m trying to reach her. I can come sit with him until she arrives.”
Another pause, longer this time. I can almost hear the hesitation through the line.
“We normally can’t release a child to someone who isn’t listed,” she says carefully.
“I understand your policy,” I say, keeping my tone calm, measured. “He’s sick, and he shouldn’t be left waiting any longer than necessary. If you’d like, you can verify who I am. My name is Morgan—Morgan Creed. I run Nocturne Enterprises.”
“I’m not asking,” I add quietly. “I’ll assume responsibility for him until his mother gets there.”
“All right,” she says slowly. “Please come to the front office when you arrive.”
“Of course.”
“And… you can bring identification?”
“I will. Can you give me the address?” I ask.
“Of course. 1115 9th Ave.”
I hang up and sit there for a moment longer than necessary, my hand still wrapped around the receiver.
Constance has a son.
The realization rearranges something fundamental inside me, like furniture being moved without warning. It explains things I didn’t realize needed explaining. The way she guards her time, the quiet urgency behind her efficiency, and the exhaustion she carries like a second skin.
I grab my coat, my keys, and her phone quickly, then leave the office.
As I cross the parking lot, I dial Miles. No answer. I try again. Same thing. Dammit. Why the fuck ins’t he answering his phone?
With my second attempt and him not answering, I call my favorite tech guy; Fletcher. He answers on the second ring.
“I need you to take the site visit this afternoon,” I say. “You know what I’m looking for. Run diagnostics and send me a full report.”
“Got it,” he replies immediately.
“Loop Miles in if anything looks off.”
I hang up without slowing, already sliding into the driver’s seat.
The drive to the school is shorter than I expected. I take it too fast, irritation simmering beneath the surface, not at the situation but at myself. I don’t like acting without information or reacting on instinct. I especially don’t like how easily my body moved when I heard the word sick.
The building is low and practical, brick softened by years of weather and children’s art taped to the windows. The front office staff looks at me warily when I give my name.
The secretary stiffens immediately. “I’m sorry, sir, we can’t release a student to anyone who isn’t listed as an authorized pickup.”
“I’m aware of your policy.”
“Then you understand why that isn’t possible.”
“He’s sick,” I reply evenly. “You’ve already told me you can’t reach his mother.”
Her mouth tightens. “We’ve called every emergency contact on file.”
“And none of them answered,” I finish for her. “I did.”
“That still doesn’t authorize—”
“If you keep a visibly ill child here when a responsible adult is present to take him somewhere safe,” I say, voice calm and quiet, “you open the district to liability. I would hate for this to turn into a conversation about negligence.”
Her expression hardens. “Sir, threatening the school isn’t going to—”
“I’m not threatening you,” I cut in smoothly. “I’m explaining what happens next if he gets worse while you refuse reasonable assistance.”
She crosses her arms. “We still can’t release him.”
I hold her gaze for a beat, then reach into my pocket and set my business card on the counter.
“Why don’t you call Dr. Shug,” I say mildly. “Let him know the district’s security contract will need to be renegotiated, and that he should schedule time to meet with Morgan Creed to discuss new terms.”
Her eyes flick to the card.
Then widen.
Silence stretches across the office.
She grabs the radio with slightly less confidence than before. “Murphy, can you come to the front office for a moment?”
A minute later the door opens and Murphy Shea, one of my security men assigned to the school steps inside. He freezes when he sees me.
“How can I help you, Miss Sandra?” he asks, cautiously.
“Do you know this man?”
Murphy swallows. “I do.” He glances at me, then back at her. “He’s… my boss. Or—” he clears his throat “—my boss’s boss. He owns Nocturne. We handle security for every school in the district.”
Sandra’s posture shifts, tension draining into something more careful.
“Okay. Thank you, Murphy.”
“Anything else, Miss Sandra?”
“No, that’s all.”
Murphy turns back to me and offers his hand. “Nice to see you, Sir. Anything I can do while you’re here?”
“No, Murphy. I’m just picking someone up.”
He nods quickly. “Have a good day.” He leaves the office faster than he entered.
I look back at Sandra. She offers a tight, uneasy smile.
“All right,” she says. “We’ll need your ID.”
I hand it over without comment.
They lead me down a short hallway, and I see him before he sees me.
He’s sitting in a too-small plastic chair, shoulders slumped, curls damp with sweat, clutching a bucket like it’s the only thing keeping the room steady. His skin is pale, eyes too bright with fever, and when he finally looks up—
My breath catches.
He looks like her.
The shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose. That stubborn pull to his mouth, like he’s fighting not to cry.
“Chance,” one of the secretaries says gently. “This is Mr. Creed. He’s going to take you to your mom’s work until she gets back.”
He studies me with tired suspicion.
“Where’s my mom?”
“She was out running errands for me and forgot her phone,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady. “I’m going to take you to my office to rest while you wait for her, all right?”
He nods weakly. “She said you’re infuriatingly handsome.” He looks me up and down. “You just look cranky and tall to me.”
I chuckle. “That’s probably right.”
I crouch in front of him; the smell of sickness and sweat hits me, and I don’t flinch. I offer him my hand, and after a moment, he takes it. His grip is small and warm and far more impactful than it has any right to be.
The drive back to the office is quiet. I adjust the temperature, crack the window slightly, and keep one eye on him in the mirror. He drifts in and out, eyelids fluttering, his breathing shallow but steady.
I bring him up the elevator, ignoring the looks I get from security, and take him straight to my office. It’s not a place for children. Everything is sharp-edged and expensive. But it’s quiet, and it’s mine, and that feels like enough.
I settle him carefully on the couch, retrieving a blanket from the closet, and drape it over him. He curls into it instinctively.
I sit nearby, watching him, listening to the building breathe around us.
This is what I didn’t account for.
Constance isn’t just a woman who crossed my path at the wrong moment. She’s a mother. Everything she does is filtered through that reality. Every risk I take with her is no longer mine alone.
The thought sits heavily on my chest.
I look back at the couch. Chance’s eyes are closed now, lashes dark against his pale skin, breath evening out.
Something inside me settles and fractures at the same time.
This isn’t possession, strategy, or control. This is a giant responsibility. And once it’s seen, it can’t be unseen.
I sit there and wait for her, knowing with absolute clarity that whatever line I thought we were dancing around has already been crossed.
There’s no stepping back from this.