Chapter 21 – Morgan
Twenty-One
Red Flags, Blue Texts
Morgan
Sam's text came while I was hunched over my sewing machine at the co-op, trying not to think about microscopic spy files embedded in my wedding ring. The burgundy silk I'd been working with for the past hour blurred as I read his message.
Sam: Hey! Back from Berlin. Can you come over tonight? I really need to talk to you about something important.
My gaze flickered from the fabric to the screen as I wondered what he had to talk about. I’d made it clear we were friends. And at best, we were surface friends. What was so important that we had to discuss it tonight?
Meanwhile, I was bursting at the seams with all the things that had to stay zipped. Dead husband who wasn't actually dead.
Secret assassin organization.
Homicidal grandfather-in-law who wanted to murder everyone I'd ever cared about.
Just another Tuesday.
I had a sinking feeling that despite saying he was good with being friends, he wanted to try his luck again. Which obviously I didn’t want.
Or he needs help with something. Don’t be a pessimist.
Me: Sure. What's your address?
I packed up my sewing supplies with hands that weren't quite steady. The co-op was nearly empty, just me and a few diehards still working on projects.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the car where Alex waited patiently, trying to convince myself this was just going to be an awkward conversation with a guy who'd misread signals. Nothing more complicated than that.
Famous last words.
Sam's apartment in the Village was exactly what I'd expected, exposed brick walls, vintage concert posters, mid-century modern furniture that screamed "I'm creative but also have money." The kind of carefully curated cool that took effort to maintain.
Parking was a nightmare on the street, so Alex double parked and walked me past the doorman to the reception desk. “I’ll be up as soon as I park the car.”
“It’s fine. I won’t be long.”
He gave me a stern look. “Like I said, I’m going to park. Leave your location on please.”
“Okay fine. I hear you.”
Sam answered the door with that easy smile and looked happy to see me. Not like someone with something urgent on his mind.
"Morgan." His face lit up like I'd just made his entire month. "Come in. I made coffee. The good stuff from that place in Soho you mentioned."
The apartment smelled like expensive coffee and something that might have been cologne. Candles flickered on the coffee table. Jazz played softly from hidden speakers.
I had just walked into a date.
"Thanks," I said, perching on the edge of his leather couch and trying not to notice how the whole scene felt carefully orchestrated. "Sam, your place. It’s lovely. But I have to say with the candles and everything, this sort of looks like a date."
His smile faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly. "Does it? Maybe I just like candles.”
"I'm not looking to date anyone." The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. “We agreed to be friends.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying my face with those earnest blue eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.
"Is this about Lance?"
Everything is about Lance.
"Yes. And no. We had an agreement."
"Morgan." Sam leaned forward, clearly not listening to a word.
His elbows were on his knees, and he clamped his hands together as if praying for the right words to get him what he wanted.
I caught a whiff of that cologne again. Something expensive and trying too hard.
"It's been months. You barely knew the guy. "
The words hit like a slap. "Excuse me?"
"You were married for what, six months? And most of that time he was traveling for work.
" There was something underneath his gentle tone now.
Something harder, more insistent. "I've been watching you for weeks.
You're stuck. Holding onto a ghost instead of letting someone who's actually here care for you. "
Barely knew him.
Heat flashed through my chest, sharp and sudden. The audacity made me itch to slap him.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" He moved closer, abandoning the couch to sit on the coffee table directly in front of me. His knees bracketed mine, trapping me in place. "Morgan, I've been patient with you. Trying to give you time. But I think you need a nudge. I’m not interested in being friends."
"Sam, I think I should go." I started to stand, but he reached out and caught my wrist. His grip was firm. Too firm.
"Wait. Just listen to me for a minute." His fingers tightened around my wrist when I tried to pull away. "Maybe what you need is someone to show you what you're missing. Someone who's alive. Someone who can actually be there for you."
Every lesson Lance had drilled into me about reading situations, about trusting my instincts when something felt wrong, flooded back. The way Sam was holding my wrist. The way he'd positioned himself to block my path to the door. This felt very wrong.
"Let go of me," I said quietly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline starting to flood my system.
"Come on, Morgan. Just give me a chance. One real chance." His grip tightened, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "I've been so good to you. What did you think was going to happen?"
The entitlement in his voice made my blood run cold. "I thought you were being a friend."
"A friend?" His laugh was ugly, completely different from the easy charm I was used to.
"Sam, let go of me right now."
"You led me on." His face was flushing now, all pretense of gentle patience evaporating. “And now you want to just walk away?"
The flood of fear in my veins had me running alternate scenarios. “Sam. You’re hurting me. We can talk this out.”
"I’m done talking. You owe me at least a chance."
The throat punch was textbook perfect. Sharp, direct, with all my weight behind it, just like Lance had taught me during those training sessions that inevitably ended with us sweaty and breathless for entirely different reasons.
Sam made a choking sound, released my wrist immediately, stumbling backward and clutching his throat, his eyes wide with shock and outrage.
"Jesus Christ!” He croaked. “What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"You grabbed me," I said, backing toward the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I told you to let go, and you grabbed me harder."
"I barely touched you!"
"You put your hands on me after I said no.." I was calculating distances now, to the door, to the kitchen where there might be knives, to anything that might help if this escalated further. Was Alex outside already? "And then you told me I owed you something."
But instead of backing down like a normal person would, instead of apologizing and letting me leave, Sam straightened with an expression that made my stomach drop to somewhere around my ankles. Worse, he moved toward the door…blocking my path out.
"You know what? I'm done being nice." His voice was completely different now. Cold. Ugly. All the charm stripped away to reveal something rotten underneath. "I'm done waiting around for some uptight bitch who thinks she's too good for me."
Oh, hell no.
"I'm leaving. Please move."
His shoulders squared and his face twisted with anger. “Not until you listen.”
"We're going to finish this conversation. You're going to hear what I have to say about your precious dead husband and why clinging to his memory is pathetic."
Where the hell is my phone?
Before I could reach for it, before I could call for help or trigger the panic app Lance had installed, the apartment door slammed open with a cracking thud.
I immediately skuttled to the nearest wall, putting it at my back so I could see anyone coming at me.
I expected Alex, but instead, Hector appeared in the doorway like something out of a nightmare.
All dark clothes and cold eyes and barely contained violence.
He took in the scene with those sharp DuLac instincts that missed absolutely nothing: Sam in front of the door, me pressed against the wall, the tension crackling through the air like electricity.
"Problem?" he asked mildly, his voice carrying that particular brand of upper-class menace that the DuLac family had perfected over generations.
Sam spun around, his face flushed with anger and confusion. "Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?"
He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicked to me, and I saw something that might have been concern flicker across his features. "You ready to go, Morgan?"
I could have cried with relief. "Yes. Very ready."
"Good." Hector's attention returned to Sam, and I watched his entire demeanor shift from concerned family member to something much more dangerous. "Back off."
"I don't think so." Sam puffed up his chest like he was going to intimidate someone who'd been raised by killers, someone who'd learned violence as a second language before he could properly tie his shoes. "This is my apartment, and Morgan and I are having a private conversation."
Hector smiled. It was all teeth and no warmth, the kind of expression that probably gave children nightmares.
"The conversation is over," he said pleasantly, his tone conversational despite the promise of violence lurking beneath it. "Move."
Something in his voice, some primal recognition of predator versus prey, made Sam hesitate, but then his face flushed with renewed anger and what I was beginning to realize was spectacular stupidity.
"Fuck this. Morgan, you can't just bring some random guy to—"
He reached for me again, his hand aiming for my arm like he had any right to touch me after what had just happened.
Mistake.
Hector moved so fast I barely saw it. One moment Sam was reaching for my arm, the next he was flat on his back with Hector's boot pressed against his throat.