CHAPTER 5

~Morgan POV~

SIX YEARS LATER

"Not again…" I muttered under my breath the moment a scream ripped through the living room. For a split second, I considered grabbing my trusty baseball bat, the Mass of Destruction, because with my kids, you never truly knew.

But then the insults started flying.

"It's mine, you chicken head!"

"No, YOU'RE the chicken head, stink breath!"

"No, you're the potato brain!"

"No, it's you!"

"Uh-uh. It's you!"

"MOMMY! Timothy just called me a wacko head!"

"No I didn't!"

"Yes you did!"

"You said it first!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

I closed my eyes, inhaled, and reminded myself that these were the kids I fought for. The kids I loved with every exhausted cell of my body.

My twin boys. Timothy and Tanner. Professional chaos creators and part-time terrorists of peace.

And it was only eight in the morning.

I dragged myself out of bed, my body protesting every movement because three hours of sleep wasn't enough. But motherhood didn't care about sleep schedules or personal needs.

Motherhood was a full-contact sport, and I was losing.

I shuffled down the hallway in my oversized t-shirt and ratty sweatpants. My hair was probably looking something horrific on top of my head. I didn't care anymore. Vanity had died somewhere around year two of raising twins alone.

The living room came into view, and I stopped in the doorway to assess the damage.

Timothy had Tanner in a headlock. Tanner was pulling Timothy's hair. They were both screaming. A bowl of cereal had been knocked over, milk spreading across the hardwood floor I'd just cleaned yesterday. Cheerios scattered like tiny landmines.

And in the middle of it all, clutched between them like the Holy Grail, was the remote control.

The remote control.

They were destroying my house over a remote control.

"Boys," I said.

They didn't hear me. Or pretended not to.

"BOYS."

Still nothing.

I grabbed the Mass of Destruction—actually just a wooden spoon I kept by the door—and banged it against the wall three times.

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Both boys froze mid-wrestle.

"Kitchen. Now." My voice had taken on that tone. The mom tone that meant business.

"But Mommy—" Timothy started.

"Now."

They scrambled apart, shooting each other death glares as they trudged toward the kitchen like prisoners heading to execution.

I followed behind them, stepping carefully over the cereal massacre. The last time I'd left these two alone for more than five minutes, someone had thrown a massive fireman truck directly at our brand-new flat-screen TV.

The screen had shattered. Completely destroyed.

And to this day, I still didn't know which one did it.

I'd asked. Begged. Threatened. Bribed.

Nothing.

They'd just spun toward each other, pointed, and started the blame game until I'd given up in exhaustion.

The TV still sat in the corner, a cracked reminder that I was raising tiny demons disguised as adorable five-year-olds.

In the kitchen, both boys climbed onto their chairs at the small table. Timothy's lip was jutted out in a pout. Tanner's arms were crossed over his chest.

They looked so much like him.

The thought hit me like it always did. Unexpected. Painful.

Dark hair. Those eyes that shifted between gray and blue depending on the light. The stubborn set of their jaws.

Damien's face. Times two.

I shoved the thought away. Buried it deep where it belonged.

"What happened?" I asked, keeping my voice calm even though I wanted to scream.

"He took the remote," Timothy said immediately.

"I had it first!" Tanner shot back.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"ENOUGH." I slammed my hand on the table. Both boys jumped. "I don't care who had it first. You don't fight. You don't call each other names. And you definitely don't destroy the house before breakfast."

"But—"

"No buts, Timothy." I pointed at him. Then at Tanner. "You're brothers. You're supposed to have each other's backs. Not tear each other apart over a stupid remote."

Silence.

They both stared at the table, properly chastised.

For now.

"Now apologize to each other," I said.

"Sorry," they mumbled in unison, not looking at each other.

"And clean up the living room."

Twin groans.

"Do it, or no park today."

That got them moving. They scrambled off their chairs and raced back to the living room, suddenly best friends again in their mission to earn park privileges.

I turned toward the stairs.

The bathroom was my sanctuary. The only place in this house where I could lock the door and pretend, for ten precious minutes, that I was someone other than Mom.

I turned on the shower, letting the water heat up while I peeled off my clothes. The mirror showed me what I already knew. Tired eyes with dark circles underneath. A body that had stretched and changed to bring two lives into the world. I wasn't the girl who'd stepped onto that plane six years ago.

That girl was gone.

She'd died somewhere between New York and Seattle, between hope and heartbreak.

I stepped under the hot spray and let myself remember. Let the memories I usually kept locked away flood back.

Going home had been hell.

My mother had opened the door, taken one look at my tear-stained face and my suitcase, and I'd seen the disappointment wash over her features before I'd even said a word. When I told her I was pregnant, she didn't ask if I was okay. Didn't ask what happened. Just told me I could stay until the babies were born. After that, I needed to figure it out on my own. She wasn't raising my mistakes.

That's what Timothy and Tanner were to her. Mistakes, not miracles or blessings. Just evidence of my failure.

I'd spent my entire pregnancy applying for jobs. Any jobs. Modeling gigs I was no longer thin enough for. Retail positions that took one look at my growing belly and suddenly had no openings. Waitressing jobs where managers told me they'd call back and never did.

Nobody wanted to hire a pregnant girl with no husband and no future.

I was damaged goods. In my small town, that made me untouchable.

The whispers followed me everywhere. Poor Morgan Hayes. Thought she was going to be somebody. Look at her now. Just another statistic. Another cautionary tale.

I started to believe them. Started to think maybe my mother was right. Maybe I had ruined everything. Maybe this was all I deserved.

And then I met Kathy.

Seven months pregnant. Standing in the grocery store trying to figure out how to afford diapers on a budget that didn't exist. This woman in bright colors and chunky jewelry had approached me out of nowhere. Told me I had incredible bone structure. Said she was a fashion designer working on a maternity line and wanted to use me in her show.

I'd thought she was crazy.

But she'd been serious. She hired me for that first show. Then another. And another. She saw something in me that nobody else did. Potential. Worth. A future that didn't involve living in my mother's house and drowning in shame.

When the twins were born, Kathy had been at the hospital. Not my mother. Kathy. She'd held my hand through the pain and the fear and the overwhelming realization that I was now responsible for two tiny humans when I could barely take care of myself.

She became more than a boss. She became family.

Kathy helped me rebuild my career from nothing. Maternity campaigns first. Then post-pregnancy fitness ads. Then regular fashion work. Perfume commercials. Magazine spreads. I'd done it all. Worked myself to exhaustion to give my boys the life they deserved.

But the work required travel. Days away. Sometimes weeks. Missing bedtimes and first steps and all the little moments I'd never get back.

Three months ago, I'd been offered the biggest contract of my career. A year-long international campaign. The kind of money that would set us up for life. And I'd turned it down.

Because my boys needed me more than they needed money. They needed their mom to be there when they woke up from nightmares. To kiss their scraped knees. To referee their ridiculous fights over remote controls.

Now I was living off savings and occasional local jobs. It wasn't sustainable. I knew that. Eventually the money would run out and I'd have to take another big contract.

But not yet. Not while they were still this small.

I turned off the water and wrapped myself in a towel.

My phone was buzzing on the counter. Kathy's name lit up the screen.

I answered with a smile on my lips.

"Hey, K." I put my phone on speaker as I plugged in my hair dryer. "What's up?"

"Morganohmy​godimsoso​rryiacci​dental​lyacce​pteda​joboffe​rfory​ouand​itsal​ready​confi​rmed—"

"Whoa, whoa." I set down the dryer. "Kathy, breathe. I can't understand a word you're saying."

I heard her take a shaky breath on the other end.

“Morgan, I fucked up really bad. I've messed everything up.” She cried.