Chapter 23 – Morgan
Twenty-Three
The Trap
Morgan
The text came in just as I was reviewing a pattern for a custom blazer, the kind of intricate beadwork that required absolute concentration. My phone buzzed against the marble countertop, interrupting my focus.
Miriam: Fire alarm triggered at co-op. Sprinkler system activated. Need you to check for water damage ASAP.
I shot up from my stool, my heart hammering. Water damage could destroy months of work. The new collection I'd been rebuilding piece by piece, all the custom orders for clients, the vintage fabrics I'd been collecting, everything was stored at the co-op.
Shit, shit, shit.
I grabbed my keys and bag, already mentally cataloguing what needed to be moved to higher ground. The silk pieces would be ruined if they got soaked. And the beadwork. Christ, all those tiny hand-sewn details would be impossible to recreate.
Another text buzzed through as I headed for the door.
Miriam: Getting worse. Please hurry. Water everywhere.
My stomach clenched. Miriam managed building emergencies like a military operation. Calm, methodical, always with a plan. These texts felt more frantic than her usual style, but maybe the situation was worse than normal.
Shit. I had to go. But I couldn’t go on my own. And Lance, Atticus, and the others had gone into Pendragon today for better processing servers. Since I wasn’t a hacker, security or a strategist, I was here. The Nanny had taken Ava to the park. Which meant no one to help me.
I could call Lance, but they were busy.
Compromise.
I dialed Alex, my assigned bodyguard for the day, as I headed for the elevator.
"Alex, I need to get to the co-op. Building emergency, possible water damage from the sprinkler system."
"Copy that, Mrs. Lakewood. I'll bring the car around."
The elevator ride down felt endless. I tried calling Miriam's number, but it went straight to voicemail. Probably dealing with the fire department or building management.
Alex was waiting by the black SUV when I reached the garage, already holding the passenger door open. Professional as always, mid-thirties, former military, the kind of quiet competence that made me feel safe without being suffocating.
"What's the situation?" he asked as we pulled out onto the street.
"Fire alarm malfunction triggered the sprinkler system. Miriam's trying to assess the damage." I checked my phone again. No new messages. "Hopefully it's contained to one area, but with my luck..."
"We'll get there fast," Alex assured me, navigating through afternoon traffic with the kind of aggressive precision that reminded me of Lance's driving.
I shot a quick text to Lance to let him know what was happening so he didn’t worry. Not that he couldn’t see my location.
The co-op building looked normal from the outside as we pulled up. No fire trucks, no emergency vehicles, no crowds of artists standing around looking displaced. Maybe Miriam had gotten it under control quickly.
Alex pulled up and double parked. “Let’s go.”
"I'll come up with you," Alex said, already reaching for his door handle.
We headed into the building, our footsteps echoing in the unusual quiet.
The hallway was dark and there was an acrid scent in the air, But I didn’t see smoke. Emergency lighting should have kicked in if the alarm system had been triggered, but everything looked normal.
“Where’s your breaker box?”
“Down that hall on your right, in the boiler room.”
“I’ll go get the lights on. But good news is nothing is on fire or anything. Probably some kind of fuse burned.”
I could hear something; a faint beeping sound coming from deeper in the building. The fire alarm, maybe, stuck on some kind of maintenance cycle.
I unlocked the main door to the co-op workspace and stepped inside.
The lights were off, but everything looked exactly as I'd left it. No water on the floors. No soggy fabrics or damaged equipment. No sign that the sprinkler system had activated at all.
What the hell?
The beeping was louder now, definitely coming from the back storage area. I pulled out my phone to call Miriam, but there was no signal. Weird. I usually had full bars in here.
"Miriam?" I called out. "Are you back there?"
No answer.
Every instinct I had was screaming that something was wrong. But Alex was just down the hall and the lights would be back soon.
All the training I’d been doing had my senses on red alert though.
Awareness of exits, weight shifting to the balls of my feet, hand moving toward the panic button in my bag.
But this was my space. My business. And if there really was some kind of emergency...
I moved deeper into the studio, following the sound of the alarm. The back storage room door was slightly ajar, darkness beyond.
"Miriam, is everything—"
A hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing my wrist and yanking me forward. I stumbled, off-balance, just as another hand clamped over my mouth.
Move. Fight. Now.
I drove my elbow back hard, connecting with something solid. A grunt of pain, the grip on my mouth loosening. I spun left, broke the hold on my wrist, and saw my attacker clearly for the first time.
Amber.
But not the Amber I knew. This version stood differently, straighter, more controlled. Her usual soft sweater had been replaced by tactical black clothing, and her eyes held a coldness I'd never seen before.
"Hello, Morgan." Her voice was different too. Crisp. Professional. Nothing like the warm, slightly breathless tone I'd grown used to. "Took you long enough."
My blood turned to ice. "What the fuck, Amber? What are you doing here? Where's Miriam?"
She smiled, and it was nothing like the genuine expression I'd seen a hundred times during our friendship. This was sharp. Predatory. "There is no emergency, Morgan. Well, not the kind you're thinking."
The beeping stopped. The sudden silence was somehow worse than the alarm.
"I don't understand."
"Of course you don't." She took a step closer, and I saw something metallic in her hand. "All this time you were so stupid to think I'd befriend such a pathetic girl."
The words pierced my chest like a poisoned arrow. casual cruelty, the way she said 'pathetic' like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Did you really think someone like me would waste time on someone so ordinary?"
My hands were shaking, but underneath the shock was something else. Anger. White-hot rage at being played, at having my grief and loneliness used against me.
"You're not at all who you thought you were."
"You have no idea." She circled me like a predator, keeping just out of arm's reach. "Every book club meeting, every late-night conversation about your tragic, dead husband, every moment you thought you were building some pathetic little friendship. All of it was a job."
Tragic dead husband. The casual way she dismissed my grief, my pain, made something violent unfurl in my chest.
"You stole Miriam's phone."
"Borrowed. She's fine, by the way. Just taking an unexpected nap in the supply closet." Amber's smile widened. "Though I have to say, she was surprisingly difficult to subdue for a woman her age."
Fear shot through me. "If you hurt her—"
"You'll what? You're not exactly in a position to make threats. And Alex isn’t coming just now. A little tranq dart has him taking a nap."
She was right. I was alone, trapped, with someone who clearly had training I didn't.
But Lance's voice echoed in my head: If you're outmatched, be smarter. Use your environment. Create opportunities.
"What do you want?" I asked, buying time while I catalogued potential weapons. Fabric shears on the cutting table. A heavy iron for pressing seams. The fire extinguisher by the door.
"What I've always wanted. Lance." Her expression turned vicious. "See, my dear sweet Morgan, your husband has been very naughty. Playing dead instead of coming home like a good grandson. But he'll come running to save his precious little wife, won't he?"
Bait. I'm fucking bait.
"You work for his Grandfather."
"Work for him? Oh honey, that's adorable." She laughed, a sound nothing like her usual bubbly giggles. "I don't work for anyone. I'm Sophie DuLac. Lance probably remembers me with pigtails and constantly chasing behind him and Hector when we were small."
My eyes went wide. "How—"
"My mother was Celene. Married to one of Charles's brothers.
She was much younger. Turns out she was carrying Charles's child.
Me. My supposed father found out she was having an affair and then we were out on our asses.
" Her voice turned bitter. "Then she has an accident.
But I know it was her husband. I was left with nothing.
Cut off, abandoned, struggling. Then Charles found me.
Told me the truth, that he was my father.
That he'd been searching for me. He claimed me.
Gave me purpose after years of being nobody. "
Her voice was just this side of unhinged. But she didn’t scare me.
Instead, it just made me angrier.
"So what's the plan? Kill me?
"I don’t care what happens to you. You’re the bait."
She moved closer, the knife glinting in the dim light. "All those sweet conversations we had about your grief, about how much you missed him. I have to admit, hearing you cry about your 'perfect love story' was almost entertaining."
The mockery in her voice, the way she twisted our friendship into something ugly, snapped the last of my control.
Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck being a victim.
I lunged for the fabric shears on the cutting table, but Amber was faster. She grabbed my wrist, twisting until I dropped it, then shoved me back against the wall and gave me a sharp slap.
"I don't think so, sweetheart."
But the training Lance, Micah and Pierce had drilled into me was automatic now. Step left. Use her momentum. Break the grip.
I twisted out of her hold and drove my knee up toward her stomach. She deflected, but it threw her off balance. I scrambled for my bag, fingers finding the panic button.