Chapter 30 – Morgan
Thirty
Runway Ready
Morgan
The London Fashion Week venue buzzed with that electric pre-show energy I'd been dreaming about since design school. A month after Marseille, a month after everything changed, and here I was. About to show the world what I could do.
Holy shit. This is actually happening.
Lance stood beside me in the wings, solid and reassuring in that way that made my pulse settle even when everything else was chaos.
The backstage area was controlled madness, models getting final touch-ups, seamstresses making last-minute adjustments, coordinators speaking into headsets like they were directing air traffic.
The familiar panic was creeping up my throat. What if I'd made a terrible mistake? What if the collection wasn't cohesive enough? What if the beading on the finale piece looked cheap under the runway lights?
Stop it. You've worked too hard for this.
"You ready for this?" Lance asked, voice low and warm against my ear.
I smoothed my hands down my dress. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Liar. You're terrified.
But the good kind of terrified. The kind that meant this mattered more than anything I'd ever done. More than any relationship, any job, any dream I'd had before this moment.
This was it. My shot. My one chance to prove that I belonged in this world.
"Places, everyone!" The stage manager's voice cut through the chaos. "First look in sixty seconds!"
My heart hammered against my ribs as the first model lined up. She looked stunning in the opening piece. A structured blazer with hand-beaded lapels that caught the light like captured starlight. I'd spent three weeks getting those beads positioned perfectly, and now—
Please let this go well.
The music started, and she stepped onto the runway.
I couldn't breathe as I watched the monitor showing the audience’s reaction. The front row was packed with fashion editors, buyers, and influencers. People who could make or break careers with a single Instagram post.
Heads turning. Phones coming out. That immediate hush that meant people were paying attention.
They like it.
Or at least, they weren't walking out. Yet.
Lance's hand found the small of my back, steadying me. "Look at their faces," he murmured. "They're mesmerized."
He was right. As model after model took the runway in my designs, I could see the audience leaning forward, really seeing what I'd created.
The asymmetrical evening gown that I'd sketched but never attempted, too ambitious, I'd thought, too risky.
The experimental piece with the gravity-defying silhouette had taken me forty-seven tries to get the engineering right.
Even the coat from my very first portfolio, realized in luxurious wool with hand-finished details that would have been impossible without Lance's help.
This is actually working.
Each piece told a story. Each model carried a piece of my soul down that runway, and the audience, they were getting it. They understood what I was trying to say.
"The finale piece," I whispered as my last design. A structural marvel of silver beading, prepared to take the stage.
This was the one. The showstopper. The design that would either cement my place in fashion history or become a cautionary tale about reaching too high too fast.
Lance squeezed my hand. "It's going to be perfect."
And it was. The finale piece moved down the runway like liquid mercury, every bead catching the lights, every line exactly as I'd envisioned. The silhouette was impossible, defying gravity and logic, but somehow, impossibly, it worked.
The audience was on their feet before the model even reached the end.
Standing ovation. Holy fuck.
My knees nearly gave out. This was it. This was the moment every designer dreams of. Recognition. Validation. Proof that all those sleepless nights and pricked fingers and moments of self-doubt had been worth it.
"Time for your bow," the stage manager said, appearing at my elbow with a grin wider than I'd ever seen from her. "They're waiting for you."
My legs felt like water as I walked toward the runway entrance. This was it, my moment to step out and claim what I'd worked for. What we'd worked for.
Don't trip. Don't cry. Don't forget to breathe.
Lance caught my arm gently. "Morgan."
I turned back to him, and the look on his face nearly undid me. Pride. Pure, fierce pride. Like watching me succeed was the greatest gift he'd ever been given.
"I'm so fucking proud of you," he said quietly. Then he kissed me, soft and quick but full of meaning. "Go show them who you are."
God, I love this man.
More than I'd ever thought possible. More than made sense. More than was probably healthy, but I didn't care.
I stepped onto the runway and into the blinding lights. The applause was thunderous, rolling over me in waves that seemed to lift me off the ground. As I took my bow, I found Lance in the wings, watching with that expression of satisfaction that said seeing me succeed was reward enough for him.
This is it. This is my life now.
Not just the fashion. Not just the success. But this, having someone who believed in me so completely that my victories felt like his too.
When I finally made it back backstage, the chaos was immediate and overwhelming. Buyers wanted to place orders. Fashion editors requested interviews. Adele was already talking about expanding the collection for international markets.
"Stunning work, darling," one of the editors gushed, grabbing my hand. "Revolutionary. We simply must feature you in the September issue."
"The construction on that finale piece," another buyer chimed in. "How did you achieve that silhouette? It's architectural."
"Is this your first collection? Where have you been hiding?"
The questions came fast and loud, overlapping each other until I could barely process what anyone was saying. Success was supposed to feel good, right? So why did I suddenly feel like I was drowning?
Breathe. This is what you wanted.
But all I could think about was Lance, who'd made this moment possible by believing in me when I didn't believe in myself. Who'd helped me finish pieces I couldn't have completed alone. Who'd held me through panic attacks and creative blocks and moments when I'd been sure I was going to fail.
"That was incredible," he said, pulling me into his arms as soon as we found a quiet corner away from the crowd. "You were incredible."
The familiar weight of his arms around me settled something in my chest. Grounded me. Reminded me that this was real, that I'd actually done it.
"We did it," I said, still buzzing with adrenaline. "We actually fucking did it."
We. Because this was as much his victory as mine. He'd been there for every late night, every doubt, every breakthrough. This belonged to both of us.
"I can't believe it's over," I said, pressing my face against his chest. "All those months of work, and it's done in fifteen minutes."
"This is just the beginning."
The beginning. “Yes, but how about a long vacation before we dive back in. I think we’ve earned it.”
His chuckle was soft as he kissed my forehead. “Whatever you want. As always, I live to serve.”
I tilted my chin up to grin at him. “There was a time when you lived to annoy me.”
“Me?” He said in mock horror as he held me close. “You were the annoying one. You were obstinate, and stubborn, and recalcitrant.”
“Those all mean the same thing.”
“Mmmhmm. You also used to walk around in the teeniest tiniest shorts I’ve ever seen. You can’t blame me for being sexually frustrated.”
“Well, if you take me back to the hotel, I should be able to do something about your frustrations before we have to meet up with Micah for the after party.”
"Actually, where is he? Shouldn’t he be here by now?" Lance said, scanning the backstage area over my head. "He said he wouldn't miss this for the world."
Micah had flown with us for the show and to take care of some family things, though he'd been vague about the details. No doubt, Atticus had him working on some Pendragon UK things, too.
I finally spotted him near the exit, talking rapidly into his phone. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept running his free hand through his hair.
Something's wrong.
"There," I said, pointing. "But he looks—"
Stressed. Upset.
Before we could move toward him, Micah stepped outside, still deep in conversation. Something about his body language made my stomach clench with worry.
Lance's phone rang before we could follow.
"Hector," Lance said, recognizing the number. He answered on speaker. "Hey."
"Well, well," came Hector's voice, slightly rough but amused. "Congratulations are in order, I hear. How was the fashion show?"
"Morgan was brilliant," Lance said, his arm tightening around my waist. "The whole thing was perfect."
"I'm sure it was. She’s got talent. I like to say I saw it first." There was rustling on the other end, like he was settling back somewhere comfortable.
"So what's the plan?" Lance asked.
Hector chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Plan? The plan is you don't worry your pretty little head about it. You've got a wife to protect and a life to live."
Lance frowned. "Hector—"
"You’re the little brother, remember? Listen to me. You two stay exactly where you are. Enjoy your success, Morgan. You deserve it. Celebrate." His voice softened slightly. "Trust me on this one. The best thing you can do right now is be visible, be public, be exactly where you're supposed to be."
"What aren't you telling me?" Lance pressed.
"Nothing you need to worry about tonight. This is Morgan's moment. Don't let anything else overshadow it."
The line went dead, leaving us staring at each other.
"That was cryptic," I said.
"That's Hector for you."
And knowing Hector, we’d hear about it eventually, whether we wanted to or not. And we might not like it. But there wasn’t much we could do about it. From his tone, I gathered it was DuLac family business. In which case, he was right. We shouldn’t know, nor ask too many questions.
We were still wrapped up in each other when Micah appeared in the doorway. One look at his face, and all thoughts of pregnancy and future plans evaporated.
He looked haunted. Pale as death, with eyes that had seen something terrible.
"Micah," I said, immediately moving toward him. "What happened?"
He stared at us for a long moment, like he wasn't sure how to form the words. "My mother is dead," he said quietly.
Oh no.
I didn't think, just moved. My arms went around him instinctively, pulling him into a fierce hug. His whole body was shaking.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered against his shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry."
Lance was there too, his hand on Micah's back. "What do you need? I’ll get Gwen and Atticus on the phone. Send the jet back to get them out here."
“Micah, I’m so sorry. This is so sad. I’m so, so sorry. We’ve got you. You’re not alone. Between Gwen and I, we can help you with anything you need for preparations.”
Micah pulled away from my hug, and the expression on his face made my blood run cold. The grief-stricken son was gone in an instant. In its place was something harder. Colder.
"Not necessary," he said, voice flat. "She was murdered. And I intend to kill the man responsible."
The End
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