Chapter 13 Morgan
MORGAN
“Basia, this is a terrible idea,” I whine for the tenth time, trying to catch up with her in the crowd.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and I just finished working late for a demanding client when she showed up to drag me to Times Square for the ball drop.
“You shouldn’t be out until you get your bodyguard tomorrow. ”
“I’ll be fine,” she replies with a negligent wave of her hand. “Who’s going to find me in this crowd?”
The air in Times Square feels electric, charged with thousands of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, bundled in coats and scarves, faces flushed from the cold and the excitement.
Street vendors line the sidewalks, selling everything from steaming pretzels to cheap plastic champagne flutes.
Somewhere nearby, a saxophone player is trying to belt out “Auld Lang Syne” over the deafening chatter.
The entire avenue is a living, breathing thing—flashing lights, laughter, the scent of roasted chestnuts and burned coffee swirling together in the icy wind. Confetti already dusts the ground from an earlier event, sparkling under the floodlights like frost.
“Because no one’s ever been followed in a crowd before,” I mutter, clutching my crossbody bag tighter and scanning the sea of people. My heart is pounding in that familiar, uneven rhythm. Too many strangers, too many places for someone to hide.
Basia just throws me a grin over her shoulder, her blonde curls bouncing beneath a knit beanie. “Relax, More! It’s New Year’s Eve! Don’t you want to actually see the ball drop for once instead of watching it from your couch in sweatpants?”
“Yes,” I say flatly, “because nothing screams self-care like frostbite and claustrophobia.”
She laughs, linking her arm through mine. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless.”
She stops suddenly, turning to face me with that mischievous smile that’s both infuriating and impossible to resist. “Come on, just for tonight. No trauma. No work. No bodyguards or stalkers or heavy conversations. Just two friends ringing in the New Year like normal people.”
Normal. The word stings more than it should.
I sigh, looking up at the massive digital screens that surround the square. They’re looping ads and countdowns, colors so bright they almost hurt my eyes. The air smells like ozone and fireworks waiting to happen.
“Fine,” I relent. “But if I get trampled by drunk tourists, you’re telling Damien.”
“Oh, please.” Basia waves it off. “Bet your new boyfriend would love to get to play savior again.”
I duck my head and flush, the thought of Damien being my boyfriend making enough warmth spread through me to chase away the late December frost.
We find a spot near the barricades, close enough to see the glittering ball perched high above the street.
Music blasts from the stage down the avenue, a mash-up of pop songs and live performances, the bass thrumming in my chest. The crowd is buzzing—strangers sharing flasks, couples kissing, everyone counting down to a clean slate.
Basia’s eyes are bright, reflecting the riot of color from the big screens. She looks carefree, untouchable, and I let myself hope this really can be just a night out.
But then, over her shoulder, I see a man standing too still in the chaos—dark coat, gloved hands, no visible phone, no laughter. Just watching. Not us, exactly. But not not us, either.
A chill creeps up my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Hey,” Basia says, nudging me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie automatically. “Just… It’s cold.”
She rolls her eyes, handing me her spare pair of gloves. “God, you’re hopeless.”
As she turns back toward the countdown stage, I glance over her shoulder again.
The man is gone.
But the feeling stays—that prickling sense between my shoulder blades that says I’m being watched. I force a smile when Basia looks back at me, clapping along with the crowd as the big screen starts the countdown.
“Ten!”
“Come on, More!” she shouts over the noise, grabbing my hand.
“Nine!”
“Eight!”
People are cheering, confetti cannons fire in the distance, and for a moment, I let myself get swept up in it, be normal again. I scream the numbers with everyone else until my throat feels raw.
“Three! Two! One!”
The ball drops, glittering like a jewel as fireworks burst overhead, washing the city in red and gold light. Strangers kiss, laugh, cry. Basia throws her arms around me, squealing.
“Happy New Year, you grumpy little hermit!”
I laugh, hugging her back. “Happy New Year, Bas.”
My phone buzzes with texts. One is from my parents, but the other is from Damien.
Happy New Year, princess.
I almost start to believe it. That this is a fresh start. That I’m free. I’m here with a great friend, and have an amazing new man in my life.
Basia and I get more drinks, laughing at a lame date story she shares.
But after a while, I start glancing at my watch.
I should be getting home—people tend to find themselves in the ER on New Year’s and need their insurance handled.
I’m off, but I might get a call or two from clients.
Then Basia’s phone buzzes, and she pulls away, squinting at the screen.
“My ride to the party is here! Finally.” She gives me one last quick hug, the smell of her floral shampoo grounding me. “Don’t wait out here too long, okay?”
“I won’t,” I promise, eager to get in a nice, hot shower.
She disappears into the sea of people with one last wave, and I stand there for a while, waiting for my own Uber to ping. The fireworks keep coming, echoing off the buildings like artillery fire, and I flinch at every burst, telling myself it’s normal.
Finally, my phone buzzes.
Driver arriving in 2 minutes.
I make my way toward the curb, weaving through clusters of people holding sparklers. The streets are slick from melting confetti, trash, and spilled drinks. A thin layer of smoke from the fireworks hangs in the air. Wonder what this place is going to look like in the morning.
That’s when I hear it.
“Morgan.”
The voice freezes me mid-step. Too smooth. Too familiar. Too painful. My heart plummets straight to my stomach.
No. It can’t be.
I turn slowly.
He’s there. Marco. Dressed in black, a grin twisting the face I once thought beautiful into something monstrous. His eyes glint with that same cold amusement I used to mistake for love.
“Happy New Year, baby.”
My throat closes. “How—how did you find me?”
He steps closer, hands in his pockets like he’s out for a stroll. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. ‘Forever’ means something to me.”
I stumble back, but his hand snaps out, grabbing my wrist hard enough to make my bones grind.
The pressure on my wrist sends me straight back—hotel bathroom on a road trip, his fingers digging in, his voice saying the same thing: you made me do this.
I forget everything I learned at the self-defense class.
“Let me go!”
“Shh.” He yanks me into the shadow of a narrow alley between two buildings. Music and laughter still spill from the street, but it feels miles away now. The stench of garbage and wet concrete fills my nose.
“You ran from me,” he whispers, pressing me against the wall. His breath smells like whiskey. “You think you can just disappear? Start over? With him?”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
His hand flashes out, striking the wall next to my head hard enough to make me flinch. “Don’t lie to me, Morgan. I’ve seen you with him.”
“You need to let me go, Marco,” I squeak, my voice sounding less convincing than I’d like it to. But I never spoke up for myself with him, I always played it safe, made myself small… a smaller target.
“I’d kill you before I ever let you go.”
Panic claws up my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t—
And then he’s gone.
Dragged backward with such force, he loses his grip on me entirely. I stumble, gasping, as Marco hits the pavement with a choked grunt.
Damien looms over him.
His face is blank, eyes glacial, one hand wrapped around Marco’s throat.
“You won’t ever touch her again,” he growls.
Marco chokes, clawing at Damien’s arm. “You—don’t scare me—”
Damien’s hand pulls back to unleash a punch that shatters Marco’s cheekbone. The crack of knuckles meeting bone echoes off the alley walls, and my breath catches—part terror, part relief. It’s horrifying how good it feels to watch him fall. But then Damien’s knee slams into his ribs.
Oh my god, he’s going to kill him.
“Damien, stop!” I gasp, my voice trembling. “Please, don’t—”
Damien looks at me then, and I see the switch flip. The soldier receding, the man I know re-emerging.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” I murmur, my hands clutched at my chest. “He’s not worth it.”
“Don’t worry, princess.” He turns back to a groaning Marco. “I’m not getting caught.”
I blink at his words. What does he mean?
He said it so confidently, like there are plans and contingencies in place.
What is he going to do with Marco? Before I can ask these questions out loud, Damien punches Marco again, this time in the temple, knocking him out.
Two seconds later, his hands are on my arms, and I can’t keep my eyes off his bloody knuckles.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” His voice is rough now, threaded with something almost like fear.
I shake my head, though I can’t stop trembling. He steps closer, looking hesitant.
“You’re safe now,” he says in his deep voice, and the tears I’ve been holding back spill over my cold cheeks. Damien pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.
“W—what are we going to do with Marco?” I ask, though a part of me isn’t sure I want to know the answer.
Damien pulls back and levels those serious blue eyes on me.
“Do you trust me, princess?”
Do I trust him? Should I trust him? Basia’s words come back to me. I should be careful—I’ve proven my taste in men is more than just questionable. It’s hazardous.
“I trust you,” I reply, realizing I mean it in some deep, primal way. I trust him to give me breath when I lose it. I trust him with my life.
His eyes assess me before he nods decisively. “My car’s on the other end of the alley.”
“Why?” I breathe. “I thought you were working tonight.”
“I had an earlier shift,” he murmurs. He pauses for a second, then seems to come to a decision. “I was following you and Basia to make sure you’re safe.”
He was following us? But… “How did you know I was going to be here? I didn’t know I was going to be here until Basia showed up when I finished work.”
“I was waiting outside the building to make sure you got home alright,” he admits.
I shake my head, confused. “Why didn’t you just offer to walk me home?”
He groans and pulls back, running a hand through his short blonde hair. I can’t help but glance down at Marco, worrying he’s going to wake up and charge at me again.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” Damien finally says. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that takes my breath away. “I want to be with you all the time, Morgan. Want to know you’re always safe. We just started dating. I didn’t want to make you run from me.”
“I…” I don’t know what to say. He’s intense. He should scare me. I should cut ties and run. But I like him so much. Maybe more than like, as insane as that is.
“Look, we’ll talk about it at my place, okay?” Damien says, his cold palm cupping my cheek. “Someone’s going to come through this way eventually.”
I take a deep breath and nod. “Let’s go.”
“That’s my good girl,” Damien whispers, making me shiver from more than just the cold. Before I can psychoanalyze my insanity, he turns to pick Marco up, throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman carry, careless as if he were a sack of potatoes. I find a little bit of pleasure in it.
We walk to his car with hurried steps, and I keep glancing around, waiting for someone to see us, homeless people, or another person trying to get to their car. Oh, shit!
“I ordered an Uber,” I tell Damien, looking back in the direction of Times Square.
“I canceled it,” he replies in that low, confident voice.
“H—how?” I stutter.
He grinds his jaw. “I’ll tell you later.”
I gape at him. Jesus. Am I insane for going with him? Who is this man, and just what is he capable of?