Chapter 1 – Morgan #2
The Egyptian cotton sheets were twisted around my legs like I'd been fighting something in my sleep.
Probably had been.
The guest room at Gwen and Atticus's penthouse was all cream and gold, expensive and soft.
Nothing like the warm chaos of the loft Lance and I had shared. Afternoon light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across my untouched sketchbooks stacked on the pristine white desk. Everything here was perfect. Clean. Empty.
The dream had woken me again.
The same one I'd been having every night since the explosion. Lance in our kitchen, making coffee in that stupid Batman mug I'd bought him as a joke. Humming under his breath while he moved around our space.
Like he was still with me.
In the dream, I could smell his cologne. Feel the warmth of his skin when he wrapped his arms around me from behind. Hear him whisper, "Good morning, Spitfire," against my neck.
Then I'd wake up in Gwen and Atticus's guest room, and the loss would hit me all over again. Fresh and brutal and gut-twisting.
I hadn't slept more than two hours at a time since it happened.
A sound made me look up. Gwen stood in the doorway holding a plate. "Morgan, you need to eat something."
It smelled like Magda's cooking. Something with herbs and love and all the things that were supposed to make you feel better.
It was like ash in my nose.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
"I'm fine."
Gwen studied my face with that worried expression she'd been wearing for days.
I probably looked like hell. My boho braids were tangled because I couldn't bring myself to care about brushing them.
My eyes were swollen from crying. I'd been living in pajamas because real clothes felt like too much effort.
Everything felt like too much effort.
"Adele called. She couldn't reach you on your phone," Gwen said carefully. "She obviously understands, but she'd like to know if you'll be coming into meetings on your collection."
I turned away from her. "Handle it."
"Morgan—"
"I can't." My voice came out raw. "Buy me time. Just... handle it."
Gwen set the plate on the nightstand, right next to the box of Lance's things. His watch was sitting beside it, ticking steadily. I'd been carrying it around like a talisman, but even that felt too heavy today.
"What's in the box?" she asked gently.
I looked at the cardboard container Pierce had brought over yesterday from the loft. Pictures of us tucked behind his credit cards, books and his journals.
"His journals. The box is full of them. I've never been able to read them."
Gwen's eyes softened. "Oh, honey."
"I can't." My voice cracked on the words. "I can't read or look at them."
"You don't have to. Not yet."
But I did have to. Eventually. Because they were the last piece of him left, and I was greedy for any part of Lance I could still touch.
Gwen sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me. "Atticus is handling the legal stuff. The will, the accounts, the business transfers. You don't have to worry about any of that."
I nodded without really hearing her. Lance had always been methodical about that kind of thing. Organized. Like he'd been preparing for this possibility his whole life.
Maybe he had been. Maybe when you grew up in a family like his, you learned early that death could come at any moment.
"I should go back to the loft," I said eventually.
"No." Gwen's voice was firm. "You're staying here until you're ready."
"I'll never be ready."
"Then you're staying here forever."
The certainty in her voice almost made me smile. Almost. But smiling felt wrong when Lance would never smile again.
"I keep expecting him to walk through the door," I whispered. "Like this is all some elaborate game. Like he's going to appear and tell me it was all fake."
Gwen's hand found mine. "I know."
A sob tore from my throat. "'I'm so angry with him for leaving me."
"I know, honey. Me too."
The anger felt good for about half a second before it collapsed back into grief. "And I hate myself for being mad at him because he's dead and I should just miss him, not be furious that he left me."
"You can be both. Grief isn't neat and tidy."
After she left, I stared at the journal for another hour. Black leather, worn at the edges from Lance's hands. He didn't write in it all the time, but sometimes he'd pull it out. I knew it was a way for him to process his thoughts.
I'd called him a secret romantic for keeping a diary.
He'd just smiled and said some thoughts were too important to trust to memory.
The afternoon light was fading when I finally worked up the courage to open it. My hands shook as I lifted the cover.
The first entry was dated right after he'd forced me to move in with him.
She's sleeping next to me, and I can't stop watching her breathe. Funny how something so simple can be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Morgan has no idea that she saved me.
My throat closed up. I almost shut the journal right there, but I couldn't stop reading.
Today, she laughed at something Micah said, and the sound lit up the whole room. I used to think happiness was something other people got to have. Something I'd traded away a long time ago. But she makes me remember what it feels like to deserve good things.
The entries went on. Page after page of Lance writing about us. About our fights and our makeup sessions, and the way I looked when I was concentrating on my designs.
Morgan gets this little wrinkle between her eyebrows when she's frustrated with a pattern. She thinks I don't notice, but I notice everything about her. The way she hums when she's happy. The way she argues with me just to see my reaction. The way she trusts me, even when I haven't earned it.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, dropping, then blurring the ink. But I kept reading.
There were entries of random conversations, date nights, and him teaching me to drive. Worrying about telling me the truth. Our fights. The night we'd stayed up until dawn talking about having kids someday.
My chest was tight, each word cutting deeper than the last. This was Lance without walls. Lance without the careful control he showed the world.
Lance loving me when he thought no one was looking.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely turn the page.
I stopped at the entry the night before our wedding. Every morning I wake up, the first thought in my head is how lucky I am that she chose a monster like me.