17. QUINN
QUINN
I’m nothing but a bundle of nerves from the moment I wake up. The kind of nerves that no amount of coffee, deep breathing, or pep talks can shake. All because today is the day. The day I prove myself, or fall flat on my face in front of everyone who already thinks I’m destined to fail.
Clothes are scattered everywhere on my bed as I try to decide what I’m wearing.
I’ve tried on three different outfits already, tossing each one aside after a single look in the mirror.
Too formal. Too casual. Too… wrong. My reflection glares back at me, pale and wide-eyed, shoulders stiff.
I smooth my hair for the fifth time, then mess it up again.
“Quinn,” Beck drawls from the doorway, leaning against the frame without a single care in the world. “Are you planning on giving a presentation or walking the runway? You’ve been changing more than a debutante at her first ball.”
I didn’t even hear him come in or notice that my door was wide open.
I glare at him from the corner of my eye. “Today is important, Beck. I can’t show up looking like—like—“
“Like yourself?” he cuts in, smirking.
I snap my gaze toward him. “You don’t get it. These people are brutal. They don’t want me there, and if I give them even one reason to write me off, they’ll take it.”
He shrugs, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. He’s in jeans and a button-down, sleeves rolled up to show off his tattoos—it’s just another day on the ranch for him. No nerves, second-guessing, or storm brewing inside his chest unlike me.
He picks up one of my discarded blouses from the bed and tosses it back down. “You’re overthinking. Go with the black dress. You look sharp in that one. Confident.”
I narrow my eyes. “Since when do you have opinions about my wardrobe?”
“Since I decided I’m coming with you,” he says, so casually it takes a second to register.
My heart jumps. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” he counters, folding his arms. “You’ll thank me later.”
I shake my head, heat rising in my cheeks. “Do you even hear yourself? They hate you, Beck. You showing up with me will only make things worse. They’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”
“Maybe you have,” he says with a grin. Then softer, “But you’re not walking into that den alone.”
I want to argue. I want to scream that his presence is the last thing I need. But there’s a steadiness in his eyes, a calm that cuts through my spiraling panic. He’s not joking now, not really. He means it. He’s already decided, and I know better than to waste my energy trying to move a brick wall.
I let out a sharp breath. “Fine. But when they turn on me, I’m blaming you.”
His grin widens as he plucks the black dress off the hanger and holds it out to me. “That’s fair. Now put this on and we’ll go knock ’em dead.”
I snatch the dress from his hand, muttering under my breath as I head for the bathroom. Behind me, his low chuckle follows, maddeningly calm while I’m coming apart at the seams.
City Hall is every bit as intimidating as I remember it to be.
High ceilings, polished wood floors, and a long, gleaming conference table that stretches down the center like a runway meant for judgment.
Men and women in expensive suits gather in little clusters, their hushed conversations broken by sharp bursts of laughter that sound anything but warm.
These people run Wrangler Creek, and today I’m here to defend my seat at the table.
As soon as Beck and I step through the doors, the room stills and heads turn. The whispers start almost immediately.
“Is that him?”
“A Morgan.”
“The Beckett Morgan?”
“Has she lost her mind?”
Every word pierces mercilessly through my armor. My pulse spikes, cheeks burning, but I force my chin up. This is what I signed up for. This is what I wanted—to prove them all wrong.
But with Beck at my side, the weight of their disdain doubles. Eyes flick to him with open hostility, lips curling in disapproval. Old grudges hang thick in the air, heavy as smoke.
“Smile, Atwood. I’ve got your back,” Beck murmurs low enough that only I can hear, leaning in slightly.
He looks relaxed, damn him, as if the stares and whispers don’t touch him at all. “You’re supposed to look like you belong here.”
“I do belong here,” I snap under my breath, though the tremor in my voice betrays me.
He shoots me a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then act like it.”
I want to elbow him in the ribs, but instead, I paste on a brittle smile and follow him down the aisle to the seats at the far end of the table.
The sound of my heels against the floor feels deafening, each step measured, deliberate.
People part for us, not out of respect, but like we’re carrying the plague.
I can feel the heat of their stares burning into the back of my neck as I take my seat, sliding my folder onto the polished surface. My hands are trembling, but I lock them in place. No weakness. Not here.
Beck pulls out his chair with all the calm of a man about to sit down at his own kitchen table. He doesn’t so much as glance at the crowd of disapproving faces, and somehow, that makes it worse.
I lean closer, whispering through clenched teeth. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t look at me, but the smirk tugging at his lips is answer enough.
I grip my pen until it digs into my skin. If I survive this meeting without strangling him, it will be a miracle.
Then my father walks in, pausing when he takes note of who is seated next to me. His lips thin to a taut line, eyes disapproving. I know he will chew me out later, but for now there is nothing he can do.
He clears his throat and takes a seat at the head of the table. The room settles into silence. My heart slams hard against my ribs. This is it. No more hiding, no more running. It’s time to prove myself, or lose everything.
He strikes his gavel once, and all eyes shift to me. My throat dries instantly, my heart ricocheting against my ribs.
“Miss Quinn,” he says with clipped formality, “I believe you have a presentation for us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may proceed.”
I rise on shaky legs, clutching the folder like a lifeline. For a moment, I can’t make myself look at them—all those faces, familiar and stern, some lined with disapproval, others with thinly veiled delight at the prospect of my failure. My palms sweat, but I draw a breath, steadying myself.
When I glance sideways, Beck is lounging back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed on me. Not a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Somehow, that helps. Just a little.
I open the folder, clear my throat, and begin.
“My proposal is built on transparency, sustainability, and community trust. Wrangler Creek deserves a cause that not only benefits us now but builds a legacy we can be proud of.”
As I speak, the words begin to flow. I talk about the local schools, about the ranchers struggling with drought, about building a program that lifts up the whole town instead of a select few.
My voice steadies, gaining strength with each sentence.
I flip through charts and plans I’ve labored over for months, highlighting the steps I’ve outlined, the partnerships I’ve secured.
For a moment, I almost forget about Beck, about the glares, about the undercurrent of hostility in the room. I can see it in some of their faces—hesitation, interest, maybe even grudging respect. But then, like clockwork, the questions come.
“Where will the funding come from?”
“You’re asking us to gamble on promises.”
“Without secured capital, this plan is meaningless.”
The voices overlap, sharp and skeptical. My breath hitches, but I straighten my shoulders.
“I’m working on securing the funds,” I say firmly. “And I believe we can draw support from places this town has long overlooked, including the Morgans.” I announce, glancing at Beck for a moment, who gives me a nod of approval.
Their reaction is instant and visceral. A ripple of gasps, mutters, a few outright scoffs.
“The Morgans?!” someone sneers from across the table. “That family has never given this town a dime unless it was to fix their own mistakes,” he attacks, glaring at Beck, who doesn’t even flinch at the accusation.
“Selfish as they come,” another adds. “Quinn, you better quit while you are ahead. You’re wasting your time on them.”
The sting of their words is sharp, but I lift my chin higher, refusing to let them see the hurt. Still, the doubt is beginning to creep in. My father’s glare only adds weight to it.
And then Beck moves.
He pushes his chair back, slow and deliberate, the kind of movement that makes the entire room turn to watch. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t stumble. He just stands there, broad-shouldered and calm, like he owns the place, even though every person in here would rather see him run out of town.
And I know, whatever comes out of his mouth next will either save me or ruin everything.
He rests his palms on the polished wood of the long table and lets the silence stretch. My pulse hammers in my ears.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice steady, unflinching. “The Morgans have always looked after their own. That’s not news.”
A ripple of murmurs runs through the committee. They weren’t expecting that kind of bluntness.
“But here’s the thing you don’t seem to realize.” His gaze sweeps across the room, sharp as a blade, before settling on my father. “Looking after your own means loyalty. It means protection—that when you’re family, you don’t get left behind.”
Someone scoffs from the far end. “Big words, Morgan. Too bad they don’t apply to anyone outside your bloodline.”
Beck’s mouth curves, half a smirk, half a warning. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He straightens, no longer leaning on the table. “Because Quinn here will be a Morgan soon enough,” he decrees, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulders.
My breath catches in my throat. The room explodes into gasps, whispers, outright shouts.
“She’ll be what?”
“This is a farce!”
“You expect us to believe—“
Beck raises a hand, and the noise dulls just enough for his voice to cut through again.
“She’ll be my wife. Which means her vision, her fight, and her cause will have Morgan backing whether you like it or not.
And trust me, once Quinn sets her mind to something, she doesn’t back down.
You’d be fools not to throw your weight behind her. ”
Heat creeps up my neck, part mortification, part something else. I don’t correct him. I don’t deny it. Because even in the chaos of voices, I can see it happening—the shift. Eyes flicking toward me with new calculation, murmurs turning from dismissal to intrigue. The tides are moving in my favor.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
Beck and I will discuss this later, but for now, I better join him before his plan unravels.
I lift my chin, steadying my voice. “You heard him. This project isn’t a gamble. It’s a guarantee. Wrangler Creek deserves better, and I intend to give it to them.”
My father clears his throat, gavel striking to regain order. “We’ll take a vote.”
One by one, hands rise around the table. Some reluctant, some eager. Enough of them to make my chest swell with disbelief. Then joy.
I’ve won!
I’m still reeling from it when the meeting ends and the room empties. My father lingers behind, waiting for me near the door. His eyes cut to Beck and back to me, sharp with fury.
“This is a mistake,” he says under his breath, so low no one else can hear. “Beckett Morgan will ruin you. Mark my words.”
Something inside me trembles, but I force myself to meet his gaze. “No, Father. I trust him.”
The words come out steadier than I feel. Because deep down, beneath the triumph and the adrenaline of winning, I’m terrified he might be right.