Chapter 12 Cole
TWELVE
Cole
My mother and father video called me while I was getting ready for the visit with Morgan, allegedly about an upcoming event, but mostly my mother was digging for details about the man I’d told her about.
“Tell your father about your new beau,” she insisted, and Father huffed in that way where he’d been included in a call he didn’t want to be part of.
I knew his pain.
“I met him at Guardian Hall,” I said. “His name is Morgan and he’s a single dad.”
“He works at Guardian Hall?” Mother asked. “That’s a respectable charitable endeavor.”
“No, he’s a guest.”
“He’s living there?”
“Yes. He’s former military.”
Silence, which I refused to fill. “And the child is with the mother?” my mother asked.
“His daughter, and no Gabbi’s mom is deceased.”
“Oh no, that poor child,” Mother said, her compassion coming to the fore. “So, are you financially supporting this Morgan and his baby?”
“No, I’m not supporting anyone,” I cut in. “He didn’t ask for money.”
“That isn’t the point,” she said, voice calm and clinical. “Perception is the point. Headlines write themselves, Cole. ‘Investment Heir Funds Halfway House Lover With Child.’”
“He’s not my lover,” I said automatically.
My mother’s gaze sharpened. “But you care for him.”
“Yes.”
“But he has nothing.”
That landed harder than it should have. “He’s brave, and strong, and a brilliant father, and has more integrity than half the men in this city,” I said quietly.
My mother’s expression flickered with concern. “I don’t doubt his character. I doubt the imbalance. You can fix everything with money, and have you thought that maybe he knows who you are and he’s seeing a blank check?”
I wanted to slam the phone down, but that wasn’t fair on me or my blossoming relationship with Morgan. “He doesn’t want me fixing anything. He doesn’t want my money. And I won’t end this because it makes someone out there uncomfortable,” I said.
My mother’s voice softened. “We don’t want you embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“We don’t want you used.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“And if you find out he is using you?” she pressed. “You won’t just lose a relationship. You’ll lose reputation.”
I sighed. “I would rather lose reputation,” I said evenly, “than lose peace.”
That was the first time they looked uncertain.
“You really like him,” Mother said, and glanced at Father who was actually listening now.
“I do. I really do. I have to go, Mother. I have a meeting.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” she said, and Father nodded.
Then, with two hours yet before the meeting I stood in front of the mirror too long.
That was the problem. Not the mirror itself—just me, staring at my own reflection as if it might tell me what the hell to do.
Jeans and a shirt lay folded on the bed behind me.
Dark denim. Clean. Casual. The version of me that said I was just some guy showing up to a meeting.
On the hanger by the door: my suit. Not just any suit.
Tailored. Italian wool. The kind of thing people noticed even when they pretended not to.
The kind of thing that announced who I was before I ever opened my mouth.
I rubbed a hand over my face.
“Don’t overthink this,” I muttered to myself, which obviously meant I was already overthinking it.
I dialed for help and Rowan answered on the second ring.
“If you’re calling to ask me to bury a body, I need at least thirty minutes’ notice,” she joked.
“What do I wear?” I asked.
She paused. “… Wow. Okay. This is serious.”
I glanced back at the mirror. Same guy. Same problem. “Meeting with Gabbi’s grandparents. Annie’s parents. Morgan asked me to be in there.” I exhaled. “Jeans and a shirt, or the suit?”
“Which suit?” she asked.
“The suit.”
She made a low sound. “You don’t mean the—”
“I mean the one that screams old money knows old money.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Before I answer that—why are you spiraling?”
I hesitated, jaw tightening. “Because he said he didn’t want them knowing who I am.”
“Did he say those words,” Rowan asked, calm but firm, “or did he say something you translated badly?”
I closed my eyes. Replayed it. Morgan’s voice. Careful. Honest.
We don’t need them to know who you are.
“He said we didn’t need them to know who I am. If I didn’t want to.”
“Oh,” she said quietly.
“What?” I asked.
“He doesn’t want you thinking he’s using your name,” she said. Not a question. A realization. “Or your money. Or your influence. He needs a friend.”
I closed my eyes, something in my chest loosening. “Oh.”
“Think about it from his perspective,” Rowan said. “He’s standing there knowing those rich motherfuckers are going to clock everything. No money. Halfway house. A baby he can barely afford, let alone fight for the way they can. He’s taking all of that on board.”
My heart hurt.
“He doesn’t want to use you,” she went on. “Not your name, not your money, not your influence. But he does like you. As a friend. And that puts him in a mess, because he also knows you could help—without meaning to, just by existing, and he doesn’t want you to think you’re being used.”
I was shocked: “No! I don’t think that.”
“Morgan won’t want you thinking he’s using you,” she said. “Jesus, Cole—have you actually had this conversation with him?”
That hit harder than I expected, and I exhaled a breath despite myself. “Kind of? Actually, not really, no.”
“You’ve got him all this baby stuff,” Rowan said gently. “You could swoop in and fix anything with money. That’s a hell of a power imbalance. So, the poor guy is probably thinking, what does he give you?”
That was a jab to the ribs. Unfair. I was offended on Morgan’s behalf before I even thought it through. “Himself,” I snapped. Then, softer but no less confident, “And Gabbi.”
Rowan went silent for a moment. “But if his self-worth is damaged,” she said carefully, “will he even see that? Will he believe he’s enough without balancing the scales?”
“I just wanted to ask you what I should wear, not for you to analyze Morgan and me,” I snapped, then scrubbed a hand over my face and sighed.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” There was no judgment from her, just quiet.
“I get it,” I said. Then, because it mattered, I added, “I really like him, Ro. And I want more. I want to be in his world, and I’ll do anything…
” I scrubbed my face. “I just don’t want him to be swallowed by my world. ”
“Okay,” she said after a moment. “Practical advice time.”
“Please.”
“Wear the jeans,” she said. “The shirt. Casual. Approachable. Non-millionairey.”
Relief flickered—then doubt. “Not the suit?”
“Leave it on the hanger.” I frowned at my reflection. “But wear the Rolex,” she added.
“Rowan—”
“Don’t argue,” she said, and her image shook as she waggled her hand. “This is me slapping you upside the head through the phone.”
I snorted. “Ow.”
“Jeans says you’re normal, just a friend who’s there to advocate for him, or stand in the corner, or whatever he needs,” she said. “The watch says you’re not powerless either. Casual—but you’re still you. You’re showing yourself without pulling out the artillery.”
I studied the mirror again. Tried to see it the way Morgan might. Not the money. Not the name. Just… steadiness. “Okay,” I said.
“Good,” Rowan replied. “Also—”
“There’s always an ‘also’.”
“If at any point you start thinking you’re there to fix things instead of stand beside him,” she said calmly, “take a breath and shut the fuck up.”
I smiled, slow and real this time. “You’re a terrible motivational speaker.”
“And yet,” she said, smug, “you called me.”
I hung up, set the phone down, and reached for the jeans. Not the suit. I fastened the watch last. When I looked in the mirror again, I didn’t see a weapon. I didn’t see my family money or a name; I saw a man who meant to show up—and who wanted to stay.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
The family room was quiet when Alex showed me in.
Morgan sat on the sofa, angled slightly away from the door, Gabbi asleep in his arms. He was fussing with her more than she needed, small, careful movements as if he were reminding himself she was real.
She wore a tiny red romper, cotton, the kind that made her look even smaller.
One sock had worked loose. He nudged it back into place with his thumb, slow and absent.
He didn’t look up right away.
Alex leaned in to him, murmured something I couldn’t quite hear, then glanced back at me before lowering his voice further. “Are you sure you want to do this without your lawyer here?” he asked gently. “Just you and Cole?”
Morgan lifted his head. His eyes flicked to mine for half a second—checking, not asking—and then back to Alex.
“I want her to meet her grandparents,” he said. “Not start a war.” The words were calm. The meaning wasn’t.
Alex studied him for a beat longer, then nodded.
“All right,” he said. He gave Morgan’s shoulder a brief squeeze, then looked at me.
A warning. Trust. Maybe both. And then he was gone, the door closing behind him.
I moved closer without announcing myself, slow enough not to startle either of them.
Morgan adjusted his grip, one arm around Gabbi as I stopped a few feet away.
I smiled at him—not bright, not brave. Just steady.
“Hey,” I said.
He nodded once. “Hey.” Gabbi slept on, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The money. The names. The people about to walk through that door. Instead, it was just the three of us. “Thank you for being here,” Morgan added. He held out a hand. I took it without hesitation.
His eyes were bright with emotion, and he was tense. I stepped closer and pulled him into a brief side hug, careful not to jostle Gabbi, then I pressed a kiss to his forehead, and another to the curve of Gabbi’s temple.
“You’ve got this,” I murmured.
His fingers tightened around mine, and I squeezed his hand once before letting go. Then I moved toward the chair in the corner, giving him space, giving him control—but Morgan frowned.