Chapter 18 – Lance
Eighteen
The Hunt
Lance
The penthouse was quiet except for the hum of my laptop and the rustle of papers as I spread financial records across the dining room table. Three cups of cold coffee sat abandoned beside me, evidence of how long I'd been at this.
Something's here. I can feel it.
Grandfather’s money trails from the past six months painted a picture of increased activity, but the pattern was still just out of reach. Like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
The elevator chimed, and I looked up to see Pierce coming through the foyer, his expression grim in a way that made my pulse spike.
"Where's Morgan?" he asked without preamble, scanning the empty space.
"Training with Atticus until noon. Then she's headed to the co-op." I glanced at my watch. 11:47. "Why?"
Instead of answering, Pierce reached into his jacket and pulled out a manila envelope. He set it on the table with the kind of careful precision that suggested whatever was inside would change everything.
"Good," he said, his voice carrying the weight of bad news. "Because we have a problem."
Fuck.
I opened the envelope, and my world tilted sideways.
I was going to kill Amber Miller.
Not metaphorically. Not eventually. Not in some distant fantasy where justice was served cold and calculated.
Right fucking now.
The surveillance photos spilled across the table, each one a fresh knife twist. Amber, Morgan's best friend, the woman who'd held her together after I "died", shaking hands with Vincent Moreau. One of grandfather’s enforcers.
The same bastard who'd broken three of my ribs at fourteen for spilling wine on my grandfather's Persian rug.
My hands shook as I flipped through the images. Amber at a café in SoHo, sliding an envelope across the table. Amber outside the co-op, photographing Morgan's work schedule on the bulletin board. Amber at a parking garage in Queens, accepting what looked like a thick stack of cash.
"How long?" My voice came out rougher than broken glass.
Pierce shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "We've been tracking her for three weeks. But the connection..." He paused, consulting his notes. "It goes back to when Morgan first moved in with you. Maybe a week after."
A week after Morgan moved in.
The timing hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Not random. Not opportunistic.
Strategic.
"Charles put her in place," I said slowly, the pieces falling together with sickening clarity. "The moment Morgan became important to me, he positioned someone close to her."
He's been watching us from the very beginning.
"She's been reporting on Morgan's movements, her emotional state, her relationships." Hector's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. I hadn't even heard him come in. "They know everything, where she goes, who she sees, how she's healing."
How she's healing from losing me.
The irony was so bitter I could taste it. Morgan thought she was getting better because she had support, had people who cared. Meanwhile, her closest friend had been a planted asset from the moment she moved into my life.
Charles knew. He always fucking knew Morgan would matter to me.
"Do we have audio?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it.
"Some." Pierce pulled up a tablet, scrolled to a file. "This is from yesterday at lunch."
Amber's voice filled the room, bright and caring, the same tone she used when asking Morgan about her nightmares.
"She's definitely still grieving. Still jumps at loud noises, but she's sleeping better. The therapy sessions seem to be helping."
Vincent's response was gravelly, French-accented: "And the husband situation?"
"If he somehow isn’t dead, he hasn’t shown.
Though, she’s been having vivid dreams about him from what she told me.
But I’d say it’s grief hallucinations. I’ll keep watch.
But as far as I can see, even when I visit.
No sign of him. He’s dead. No sign of Hector anywhere near her either.
I know that’s not what Charles wants to hear.
But all I’ve seen is evidence of a pathetic woman who didn’t have the good sense to die when we asked so nicely. "
Then they both laughed.
They fucking laughed about Morgan's grief.
The tablet cracked in my hands. Blood welled up where the broken screen cut my palm.
“I’m going to kill her. And I’m going to make it slow.”
"Lance." Hector's voice cut through the roar in my ears. "We need her alive. She's our link to understanding what Charles wants."
Over my dead fucking body.
"No." I stood up so fast my chair crashed backward. "Absolutely not. We end this. Tonight."
"Lance—"
"She's been in our house." The words came out like bullets. "Amber Miller has been in our home, drinking our wine, eating our food, holding Morgan while she cried, all while reporting back to the bastard who wants to kill her."
My hands were shaking with the need for violence.
The DuLac training was rising to the surface, sixteen years of suppressed instincts screaming for blood and vengeance.
I could see it so clearly, walking into that café where Amber liked to meet her handler, putting my gun to her temple, making her call Charles and beg for Morgan's life before I pulled the trigger.
Do it. Hunt them. Make them pay for touching what's yours.
"We can't just kill her," Pierce said carefully. "Morgan would notice if her best friend disappeared."
"Then we make it look like an accident."
"Lance." Hector stepped closer. "Think this through. If Amber dies now, Charles will know we're onto him. He'll accelerate whatever timeline he's on."
Look at him…suddenly the voice of reason.
"I don't care."
"Morgan will care."
The words stopped me cold. Because he was right, and I hated him for it.
If Amber died, Morgan would blame herself. Even if Amber had betrayed her. She wouldn’t want her dead.
But if Amber lives, she's in danger.
I was trapped between protecting Morgan's heart and protecting her life, and there was no clean solution.
"What do you suggest?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Surveillance. We watch her, see who else she's meeting with, figure out grandfather’s endgame." Hector pulled up another set of photos. "And we feed her false information. Use her against them."
But that meant in some ways Morgan was the bait.
"Fuck no."
"Lance—"
"I said no." My voice dropped to that register that had made grown men piss themselves. "We don't use Morgan for anything. Ever."
"Then what's your solution? Because right now, they know everything about her daily routine, her emotional triggers, and her security protocols. They could take her anytime they want."
The truth of it hit me like a sledgehammer. All my protective instincts, all my careful planning, all the ways I'd tried to shield her, none of it mattered if the enemy was already inside the walls.
I sat down heavily, running my hands through my hair. "How long before she figures it out?"
"Amber’s smart," Pierce said quietly. "She’s obviously trained. If Morgan asks the wrong question, says the wrong thing she will notice."
That sent a cold spike of fear through my chest.
"What about the team meeting tonight?" I asked. "Any indication Amber knows I’m alive"
"Morgan told her she was staying in for the night, too tired to go out. But we don’t know what Amber knows." Hector pulled up his phone. "Want me to have someone watching Amber tonight? See if she tries to get close to the penthouse?"
"Do it." I stood up, decision made. "And I want full surveillance on her from now on. Every conversation, every meeting, every fucking bathroom break."
"And Morgan?"
Morgan, who trusted too easily. Morgan, who believed the best in people even when they didn't deserve it. Morgan, who'd been betrayed by the one person she'd counted on to help her heal.
"I'll handle Morgan."
Somehow.
Because how do you tell the woman you love that her best friend had been lying to her face for months? How do you explain that the person who'd helped her through the worst period of her life was actually working for the enemy?
How do you break someone's heart to save their life?
Three hours later, I was pacing our bedroom like a caged animal, waiting for Morgan to get home from the co-op. The irony wasn't lost on me.
I was literally watching my wife work alongside a woman who was probably gathering intelligence to use against us, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it without blowing our cover.
This is what helplessness feels like.
I'd spent years building walls, creating barriers, controlling every variable to keep Morgan safe. But the one thing I couldn't control was her heart. Her loyalty. Her stubborn determination to believe in people even when they didn't deserve it.
Especially when they don't deserve it.
My phone buzzed with a text from Pierce: Still at co-op. Normal conversation, nothing suspicious.
Of course it looked normal. That was the whole point. Amber was a professional, trained to blend in, to be exactly the kind of friend Morgan needed when she was falling apart. Warm without being clingy. Supportive without being pushy. Always available but never invasive.
Perfect fucking cover.
Another text: Morgan's phone just pinged. Text from Amber asking if she wants to grab coffee tomorrow morning. Morgan said yes.
Shit.
I couldn't let Morgan go alone, but I also couldn't follow her without explaining why. And I wasn't ready for that conversation yet. Not until I knew exactly what Charles was planning.
Unless Morgan already suspects.
The front door opened downstairs, and I heard Morgan's voice, bright and cheerful, calling out that she was home. My heart clenched at how happy she sounded. When was the last time I'd heard her laugh like that?
Before you died. Before you put her through hell.
Her footsteps on the stairs, light and quick. She appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes sparkling in a way they hadn't in weeks.
God, she's beautiful.