Morgan's Point of View
I pace the antiseptic halls of the waiting room, my Louboutins clicking against the linoleum like a metronome, counting down the seconds until I can see him again. The fluorescent lights cast everyone in a sickly pallor, but I barely notice the other worried faces around me. My mind is still processing everything that happened in the last hour.
Adam is in surgery. My Adam. His beautiful, capable hand mutilated because I wasn't there to supervise him properly.
When I raced home and saw the oven still preheating, just as he'd said, I felt an odd flutter of pride amid my panic. Even in crisis, he'd been thinking of my home's safety. I switched it off and rushed back here, only to discover they'd already taken him into surgery.
I drop gracefully into one of those horrid plastic chairs, crossing my legs and straightening my back despite the exhaustion pulling at me. The blood on my designer pantsuit has dried to a rusty brown, but I wear it like a badge of honor. Evidence of my devotion.
What I can't understand is how he managed to sever his finger so completely. The surgical precision of it is almost impressive, cutting through bone requires significant force. Did he not feel the blade pressing through? Did he not stop when it began to hurt?
A sigh escapes my perfectly painted lips as I consider the implications. I adore his cooking, the way he puts such care into every dish, the domesticity of watching him move through my kitchen with practiced ease. It's become part of our ritual, part of how I'm shaping our life together.
But clearly, he needs better supervision. Better tools, perhaps. Maybe I should invest in those special gloves professional chefs wear. Or perhaps some cooking classes would help refine his technique while keeping all his remaining fingers intact.
The irony isn't lost on me, I've spent months orchestrating the perfect environment to capture him, and now I'm worried about his safety within it. But that's love, isn't it? This fierce protectiveness I feel watching him bleed in my kitchen, this desperate need to preserve him while still possessing him completely.
My thoughts are interrupted by the waiting room doors swinging open with an aggressive whoosh. The fluorescent lights catch on blonde hair, and my heart stops for a split second before accelerating into a frantic rhythm.
Lana fucking Blake stands in the doorway, her ridiculous gray sweatpants and loose t-shirt making her look like she just rolled out of bed. Her makeup is minimal, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, the picture of a concerned girlfriend rushing to the hospital. How perfectly nauseating.
Across from me, some mousy little thing with anxiety written all over her face shifts uncomfortably in her plastic chair, clearly sensing the sudden tension crackling through the air. She clutches her purse tighter, eyes darting between us like she's watching a tennis match.
Lana's eyes lock with mine, widening in recognition and something darker. "Morgan? What the fuck?"
I uncross my legs slowly, deliberately, letting her see the dried blood on my expensive pantsuit. "Lana? What a surprise." I keep my voice silky smooth despite the rage bubbling beneath my skin. "Fancy meeting you here."
She takes three aggressive steps toward me, her face contorted with suspicion. "Why are you covered in blood? Where's Adam? The hospital called me…"
"Why in the world would the hospital call you?" I ask, arching one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. My voice comes out deceptively calm despite the fury coiling inside me like a viper ready to strike.
Lana's face hardens, her chin jutting out defensively. "Because I'm Adam's emergency contact."
"Is that right?" I purr, feeling my jaw tighten with irritation. Of course, he never changed it. Of course, this little detail slipped through my meticulous planning. The oversight makes my blood simmer.
Lana's eyes narrow as she studies the dried blood staining my clothes. Her gaze tracks the crimson splatter patterns across my blouse. Something clicks behind her eyes.
"Wait," she says, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Has Adam been with you since he left me?"
The delicious opportunity this presents makes my lips curl into a smile before I can stop myself. I stand slowly, smoothing my blood-stained skirt with deliberate care, letting her see how comfortable I am wearing her ex-boyfriend's blood.
"Oh, Lana," I sigh as if explaining something to a particularly dense child. "Adam's been living with me for over a week now. Didn't he tell you? He's my house manager."
Her face pales so beautifully I wish I could photograph it. The shock, the betrayal, the dawning horror, it's all there, playing across her features like the world's most satisfying theater.
"House manager?" she repeats, the words strangled in her throat.
I step closer, close enough to smell her drugstore perfume. "Mmm, yes. He cooks for me. Cleans my home. Takes care of all my... needs." I let the implication hang between us, savoring how her eyes widen with each carefully chosen word.
"You're lying," she whispers, but there's no conviction behind it. Just desperate hope.
"Am I?" I tilt my head, enjoying this game immensely. "Ask the nurses. I brought him in."
Lana's face crumples, her lower lip trembling as she wraps her arms around herself. It's pathetic how quickly she falls apart.
"What happened to Adam?" she asks, her voice small and quivering. "Is he okay? They wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. I got so scared I even called his sister."
My blood freezes in my veins. "You called Sarah?"
The words escape before I can mask the sharp edge of annoyance. Fucking perfect. Another complication I don't need right now. Sarah has been a work in progress for months.
Lana's eyes narrow, suddenly more focused. I've shown my hand.
"Yes, I called Sarah," she says, studying my reaction with newfound suspicion. "And you lied to me on the phone earlier. You said you had no idea where Adam was."
I recover quickly, smoothing my expression into one of practiced concern. "I was respecting his privacy, Lana. He specifically asked me not to tell you where he was staying."
"Bullshit," Lana hisses, stepping closer. Her eyes dart to the dried blood on my clothes. "What did you do to him? Why is his blood all over you?"
I laugh, the sound echoing off the sterile walls. Several people in the waiting room look up, then quickly avert their eyes from our little drama.
"Do to him? I saved him. He cut his finger off while cooking in my kitchen. I'm the one who brought him here, packed his finger in ice, made sure the surgeons could reattach it." I lean in, lowering my voice to a confidential whisper. "While you were busy fucking Leo on camera, I was taking care of your abandoned boyfriend."
The color drains from her face. "That's not…"
"Fair? True?" I shrug elegantly, enjoying how she flinches at the movement. "Ask Adam when he wakes up. Ask him how he felt watching you beg Leo to fuck you harder while he choked you. Ask him if he enjoyed hearing you say another man was better than him."
Lana's eyes fill with tears, but there's anger burning behind them now. "You manipulative bitch. You planned this, didn't you? Getting Adam to your house, isolating him from me…"
"He isolated himself from you when he walked out," I interrupt smoothly. "I merely provided a safe landing." I examine my manicure casually as if we're discussing nothing more important than the weather.
The mousy woman who's been watching our confrontation shifts uncomfortably in her seat, clutching her purse like it might shield her from the tension crackling between Lana and me. She rises quickly, mumbling something about needing the restroom before scurrying away. Smart girl. Some animals can sense when predators are about to clash.
I'm about to continue verbally eviscerating Lana when the waiting room doors swing open again. Sarah Avery strides in, her professional facade barely concealing the anxiety etched across her features. Her designer glasses can't hide the worry in her eyes as they dart around the room, finally landing on Lana.
"Lana, did they say what happened to Adam yet?" Sarah asks breathlessly, her voice tight with concern.
Then her gaze shifts to me, and I watch recognition bloom across her face, followed immediately by confusion.
"Morgan? Why are you here?"
I suppress a smile, keeping my expression appropriately somber despite the thrill racing through my veins. For the past two months, I've carefully cultivated a friendship with Sarah, knowing she was Adam's sister, determined to weave myself into the fabric of his life even before he knew I existed. When she went through that messy breakup with that investment banker, what was his name again? Michael? Matthew? It was almost too easy to insert myself into her life. Wine nights, spa days, shoulder to cry on. I became her rock while she was at her most vulnerable.
"Sarah, hey," I say softly, stepping toward her with open arms. The dried blood on my clothes makes her eyes widen. "I'm so glad you're here. It's been absolute chaos."
Sarah accepts my friendly hug automatically. Over her shoulder, I see Lana's face contort with suspicion.
"You two know each other?" Lana asks, her voice rising slightly.
Sarah pulls back from our embrace, looking between us with growing confusion. "Yes, Morgan and I are good friends." She turns to me, brow furrowed. "But how do you know Lana? And why is there blood all over you?"
I take Sarah's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze that has become our ritual. "Adam's been staying with me this past week," I explain gently. "After what happened with Lana."
Sarah drops my hand like it's suddenly scorched her, taking a step back. Her face transforms in an instant, confusion morphing into dawning horror and then white-hot anger.
"Wait a fucking minute," she says, her voice dangerously low. "You're THAT Morgan? The porn actress?" Her eyes narrow behind her designer glasses, scanning me with new recognition. "You told me you were a fashion model!"
I keep my expression carefully neutral despite the internal scramble. This wasn't how I planned for her to connect the dots. Not here, not now, with Lana watching like a hawk.
"Sarah, please…" I begin, but she cuts me off with a sharp gesture.
"And Adam told me he filmed a SCENE with you?" Her voice rises with each word, drawing stares from across the waiting room. "A FUCKING PORN SCENE WITH MY BROTHER?"
I can feel Lana's eyes boring into me, her smug satisfaction practically radiating across the room. This is unraveling faster than I can control it. Sarah wasn't supposed to put these pieces together yet. I needed more time to frame the narrative properly.
Still, there's something oddly thrilling about hearing that Adam discussed me with his sister. He talked about me. Thought about me enough to mention me. The knowledge sends a pleasant warmth through my chest despite the chaos unfolding.
"Sarah," I say, softening my voice to the soothing tone that's worked so well on her in the past. "I had no idea Adam was your brother. When you mentioned your brother's girlfriend was in the industry, I never made the connection."
The lie flows effortlessly from my lips, but Sarah isn't buying it anymore. Her eyes have hardened, seeing me clearly for perhaps the first time.
"No. No fucking way," she says, shaking her head. "This is too weird. All this time... our wine and dine nights, our cucumber eye for the girlies days... and you were what? Planning to get to my brother?"
She turns abruptly to Lana as if I've suddenly become invisible or too toxic to acknowledge.
"What happened to Adam?" she demands. "Is he okay? Why is he in the hospital?"
I can see my carefully constructed facade crumbling around me. Months of meticulous planning, of cultivating trust with Sarah, of positioning myself perfectly in Adam's orbit, all of it threatening to collapse because of one stupid kitchen accident.
But I'm nothing if not adaptable.
"He severed his finger while cooking," I interject before Lana can answer. "He's in surgery now. They're reattaching it."
Sarah's face pales. "His finger? Which one?"
"Index, left hand while cooking," I reply promptly. "I brought him in. The doctors say the prognosis is good. I packed it in ice immediately and got him here within twenty minutes."
Sarah's shoulders visibly slump with relief, her breath escaping in a rush. "Thank god," she mutters, pressing a hand to her chest. Her eyes dart between me and Lana, calculation replacing her initial panic. "So let me get this straight, you hired my brother as your... house manager, and he accidentally cut his own finger off?"
"Correct," I reassert.
Sarah barks out a laugh, the sound harsh and brittle in the sterile waiting room. "Jesus Christ, Adam. You are so fucking stupid." She shakes her head, adjusting her designer glasses with a trembling hand. "First falling for pornstars, and now cutting your own finger off? Who the fuck does that?"
"He was making a roast," I offer, my voice perfectly calibrated to sound both concerned and slightly exasperated. "I believe he was watching a cooking tutorial when it happened."
"Of course he was," Sarah scoffs, pacing a small circle in front of us. "My brother, the perpetual disaster magnet."
Lana steps forward, her ridiculous sweatpants hanging off her hips. "Can we focus on Adam's health right now? He's in surgery!"
I turn to her, allowing just enough venom to leak into my smile. "We are focused on Adam, Lana. Some of us have been focused on him since the moment you decided to humiliate him on camera."
Lana's mouth opens to retort when the waiting room doors swing open again. A doctor in blue scrubs steps through, his face grave beneath his surgical cap. His shoulders are slumped in that unmistakable posture of defeat that sends ice through my veins before he even speaks.
"Are you all here for Mr, Avery?" he asks, his voice soft but carrying across the suddenly silent waiting room.
"Yes," the three of us answer in unison, stepping forward like synchronized marionettes.
The doctor's eyes sweep over us, the blood-spattered businesswoman, the disheveled pornstar in sweatpants, and the perfectly put-together sister, and something in his expression shifts.
"Please, follow me," he says, gesturing toward a door marked "Private Consultation."
My stomach drops as we follow him down a short hallway, my Louboutins suddenly feeling like lead weights. This isn't right. Finger reattachments are routine procedures. Simple. Safe.
The doctor's office is small, claustrophobic even, with diplomas lining the walls and a desk that's seen better days. He gestures for us to sit in the three chairs facing him, but I remain standing, my body rigid with building tension.
"What's happened?" I demand, my voice sharper than intended. "Is the surgery complete?"
The doctor settles heavily into his chair, removing his surgical cap to reveal thinning gray hair. He looks exhausted, defeated in a way that makes my heart race with primal fear.
"I'm Dr. Kessler," he begins, his voice carrying that practiced, gentle tone that doctors reserve for delivering catastrophic news. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but we lost Mr. Avery during surgery."