Chapter 27
MORGAN
Morgan's perfectly manicured nails tapped an irritated rhythm against the steering wheel of her rental car. As she drove down Main Street, her eyes scanned the sidewalks with the practiced vigilance of a hunter tracking prey that had evaded her for too long.
She'd been doing this for weeks now. She’d drive past the boutique checking to see if its windows were still boarded up, driving close to Connor’s ranch but far enough to be out of sight and just waiting around Main Street in hopes that Harper would somehow show up in town.
Watching. Waiting. Planning her next move now that Sheriff Davies had brought her in for that humiliating interrogation three days ago.
The interrogation that had gone exactly nowhere because Morgan was too smart to be trapped by some small-town sheriff with delusions of competence.
She'd answered every question with calculated precision, her voice perfectly modulated between concerned citizen and offended professional.
She'd expressed appropriate shock at the accusations.
Me? Helping criminals? Sheriff, I think you have me confused with someone else.
Then she provided alibis that couldn't be definitively disproven all while she maintained the kind of composed demeanor that came from years of practice.
They had nothing. Circumstantial evidence at best, coincidence at worst. And Morgan had walked out of that station with her head high and rage simmering just beneath her composed exterior like magma waiting to erupt.
The afternoon sun was too bright, making her squint despite her designer sunglasses.
She'd spent the morning at the county records office, her actual job feeling like a tedious obstacle to what really mattered.
Which was making sure Harper's life continued its downward spiral until she finally gave up and left town.
Left Connor.
Because Connor was supposed to be hers. Had been hers for a year, and the fact that he'd chosen to end things with her in favor of that damaged, broken, pathetic excuse for a woman was an insult Morgan couldn't swallow, wouldn't swallow, refused to accept.
She slowed as she approached the medical clinic, intending to turn at the next corner, when movement caught her eye.
Two figures walked hand in hand toward the clinic entrance. The man was tall and broad-shouldered in jeans and a work shirt that probably cost nothing and a cowboy hat shading his face. The woman was small and redheaded, wearing jeans and a lavender top that looked cheap even from this distance.
Connor and Harper.
Going into the clinic. Together.
Morgan's hands clenched on the steering wheel, her perfectly shaped nails digging into the leather hard enough to leave marks she'd have to explain to the detailer later.
Why would they be going to the clinic together?
The question circled in her mind like a shark as she pulled into a parking spot across the street, half-hidden behind a delivery truck that provided perfect cover.
Through her windshield, she watched Connor hold the door for Harper and she rolled her eyes.
That infuriating gentleman routine he'd never quite managed to turn off even when Morgan had told him repeatedly it was outdated and unnecessary and made him look weak.
Harper hesitated at the entrance, her body language screaming nervousness even from this distance. Connor's hand found the small of her back, guiding her inside with that protective touch that had once been reserved for Morgan, that should have been Morgan's forever.
It should have been mine. That touch, that protection, that devotion—all of it should have been mine. His property should have been mine.
The clinic door closed behind them, and Morgan sat in her car with the engine idling, her mind racing through possibilities.
Connor clearly wasn’t injured or sick, so it had to be Harper’s appointment. But for what? He wouldn't take time away from his precious ranch for something trivial, wouldn't leave his horses and his work unless it was important.
Unless it wasn't trivial.
The thought crystallized with sudden, horrifying clarity that made her stomach drop.
No. That bitch got herself pregnant.
The realization flooded through her, making Morgan's vision narrow at the edges, her breath came sharp and fast through clenched teeth. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel, not with fear or sadness, but with pure, incandescent rage that threatened to consume her from the inside out.
Harper was pregnant with Connor's baby.
Even though she didn't want Connor or even want children, she would have put up with it to get what her father needed. It all should have been hers. A ring, a baby, Connor, and his property.
And Harper had stolen it with her doe eyes and her damsel-in-distress routine and her convenient trauma that made Connor want to rescue her.
Morgan's breathing came faster, her chest was tight with fury so intense, it felt like it might crack her ribs. The careful composure she'd maintained for weeks shattered like glass hitting concrete.
She waited. Sat in her car with the engine running and the AC blasting and waited with the patience of someone who'd learned to bide her time for the right moment to strike, to hurt, to destroy.
Forty-five minutes passed. An eternity and a blink simultaneously, time distorting around her rage.
Then the clinic door opened, and Connor and Harper emerged into the sunshine like they were stepping into some kind of fucking fairytale.
Even from across the street, Morgan could see it.
The joy radiating from both of them was like a physical thing that made her want to vomit.
Connor's arm was around Harper's waist, his other hand moved to her stomach in a gesture so tender, so possessive, so hers that it made Morgan want to scream until her throat bled.
Harper was laughing while looking up at Connor with an expression of such complete devotion it made Morgan's stomach turn. Then Morgan saw what Harper held in her free hand.
Papers. Multiple sheets that caught the light, glossy and unmistakable even from this distance. Ultrasound photos. She's showing him ultrasound photos of their fucking baby.
Morgan watched as Connor took the photos with the kind of reverence reserved for holy relics, as he stared at them with wonder written across his stupid face. Watched as he cupped Harper's face like she was something precious and kissed her where everyone could see.
Where Morgan could see.
It’s like the message was meant for her alone. This is mine. She's mine. This baby is mine. And you were never even a consideration, Morgan. You were just a placeholder until something better came along.
Something inside Morgan snapped.
Not a clean break, that would have been merciful and suggested the possibility of healing.
This was a shattering. A complete disintegration of the careful control she'd maintained, the calculated persona she'd crafted over years, the professional mask she'd worn while working with Armand and Silas to systematically destroy Harper's life piece by piece.
None of it had worked. All the threats, the apartment fire that should have killed her, the boutique destruction that should have broken her, the escalating pressure that should have driven her away screaming, none of it had accomplished what it was supposed to.
Instead, Harper had burrowed deeper into Connor's life like a tick.
Deeper into his protection. Deeper into his heart.
And now she was carrying his child.
That should be MY baby. MY future. MY life.
Morgan's hands shook as she pulled out her phone, her vision blurred with tears of rage she refused to let fall because crying was a weakness and Morgan Ashford was not weak.
She scrolled to a contact with no name, just a number, and hit dial before she could think better of it.
Before self-preservation could override fury.
Silas answered on the second ring, his voice smooth and unconcerned in that way that usually calmed her but today just grated. “Ms. Ashford. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon. Have the police contacted you again?”
“Forget the police.” Morgan's voice came out harsh, raw with emotion she couldn't contain anymore, didn't want to contain. “Forget the boutique. Forget Connor's property and your smuggling routes and my father's organization. None of that matters anymore.”
A pause. When Silas spoke again, his tone had shifted to alert now, interested in the way predators got interested when prey showed weakness. “I'm listening.”
“She's pregnant.” The words were bitter and toxic on Morgan’s tongue. “Harper is pregnant. I just watched them leave the clinic with ultrasound photos. She's probably been pregnant for weeks and we had no idea, no fucking idea while we've been wasting time on property and intimidation.”
Another pause, longer this time. Morgan could practically hear Silas thinking, calculating, adjusting his plans with that methodical precision that her father valued.
“That does complicate things,” he said finally, his voice maddeningly calm. “But Ms. Ashford, I'm not sure I understand how this changes our objective. The boutique property and Connor's ranch are still valuable for our operations—”
“I don't care about the property!” Morgan's voice rose, sharp enough that she immediately glanced around to make sure no one was near her car and heard her losing control.
She forced herself to breathe, to modulate her tone into something resembling rationality.
“I don't care about your smuggling routes or my father's operation or the money or any of it. I want Harper gone. Not scared away. Not pressured into leaving. Gone.”
“Ms. Ashford—”