Undressed By His Arrogance

Morgana paced. Her fingers were tangled in her hair, undoing the careful styling.

"This cannot be happening," she snapped, spinning on her heel to glare at Tom. "I told you years ago to get out while you still could. But no—you were waiting for the big Orchard fortune. Well? Where is it now?!"

Tom sat slumped on the couch, jacket tossed aside, tie loosened. He looked smaller somehow, deflated. "I couldn’t divorce her," he said heavily. "I signed a prenup."

"Of all the stupid things you could do," she hissed, "I still wonder till tomorrow why in the world would you do that?"

"The stupid old fart had it as a condition to marry her!" Tom snapped back, irritation flaring to cover panic.

She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "If you had just let me up the dosage all those years ago, she’d be dead and gone by now. Clean. Quiet." She waved a dismissive hand. "But no. You wanted to wait. For the Orchard fortune." Her lip curled. "You were an idiot then, and you’re still an idiot now."

"Would you stop talking in past tense?" Tom snapped, standing abruptly. "The point is I need money. Now."

Tom dragged a hand down his face. "The accounts are empty. Cards declined. She drained everything."

"You are not getting any money from me!" Morgana said. She stopped pacing long enough to plant herself in front of Tom, hands braced on her hips, eyes blazing. "I’m not your personal bank, and I’m certainly not your emergency exit."

Tom stared at her, incredulous, panic sharpening his voice. "Are you telling me you don’t have any money saved? I have been giving you money monthly for years. You run a charity, Morgana. You swim in donations. Don’t insult my intelligence."

Her face darkened. "What I have," she said coldly, enunciating every word, "is meant for my children and their future." She took a step closer, finger jabbing toward his chest. "What you need to think about now is how to get more money—not how to steal from what we already have. I am not setting my kids on fire to keep you warm!"

Tom scoffed, frustration boiling over. "Listen to yourself," he shot back. "I married Anna—for you. I swallowed every piece of bullshit her father threw at me—for you. I played the obedient son-in-law, smiled through dinners I wanted to flip tables at—for you."

Morgana’s eyes flashed. "No," she snapped. "You married Anna because you wanted everything your brother wanted. Don’t drag me into your inferiority complex."

Tom’s jaw worked as if he were chewing on rage. "Fine," he said finally, lowering his voice, shifting tactics. "Can you borrow some money from the charity?" He lifted his hands in mock surrender. "I’ll pay it back. I just need breathing room. Time. I have someone feeding me information. Once I know where to strike from, Winn will fold. He’ll hand over everything he has."

Morgana watched him carefully, seeing past the bravado to the desperation underneath. The man who once thought himself untouchable was now bargaining.

She turned away, rubbing her temples. This was not the plan. This was never supposed to be this messy.

"Fine," she said at last, spinning back toward him. "I’ll see what I can come up with." She held up a hand before he could speak. "This is not a gift."

Tom exhaled sharply, relief flickering across his face. "Thank you."

"Don’t thank me yet," Morgana said coolly. "Come to the office tomorrow. I’ll have Trish get started on the paperwork in the morning. And Tom? If this blows back on me, I won’t hesitate to cut you loose."

Tom nodded quickly. "Understood."

He had already turned back toward the chair when the thought hit him—sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore. Tom froze mid-step, his mind suddenly racing.

"What’s your assistant’s name again?" he asked.

Morgana paused halfway up the first step of the staircase, one hand resting on the rail. "Trish," she said, glancing back over her shoulder. "Why?"

Tom shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing." But it was something. He could feel it crawling under his skin. Years ago, paranoia had saved him more than once, and now—when everything was unraveling at once—his instincts were screaming. Trish. The name was too familiar.

It might be nothing.

Or it might be everything.

"And Tom," Morgana added sharply, turning fully now. "You better fix this. And fix it fast." Her eyes were ruthless. "My kids are not going to suffer because you were a fool."

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her heels clicked decisively as she headed up the stairs, leaving Tom alone in the living room, surrounded by luxury that suddenly felt very temporary.

Tom sank back into the chair, heart thudding. He pulled out his phone again, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. For the first time since this began, fear edged past anger.

*****

"Ivy, love." Sam’s voice carried gently through the house just as Ivy reached the bottom of the stairs, handbag on her shoulder, coat already on. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the quiet elegance of the Everest home.

"Winn is on the phone for you."

Ivy didn’t slow. "I don’t want to speak with him," she said firmly, heading straight toward the dining area.

Sam sighed softly. He lifted the phone again. "She doesn’t want to speak with you."

Winn’s voice came through, carrying an emotion he wasn’t quite managing to hide.

"Yeah. I heard her." A beat. "Would you put me on speakerphone? She can at least listen."

"I really have to start billing you for this shit," Sam muttered as he pushed himself upright, bracing both hands on the armrests before leaning into the familiar ache in his hips.

Sam waited, watching with narrowed eyes as the maid adjusted the napkin beside Ivy’s plate, asked if she wanted more juice, then finally excused herself. Only when her footsteps faded did he place the phone squarely on the table and jab the speaker button.

(Additional Chapter. Courtesy of Jennifer WIllard)