Chapter 301
Mia’s POV
“Morton,” I said flatly. “It’s six in the morning p>
Through the narrow gap allowed by the security chain, I could see him properly now. The split lip wasn’t his only injury-there was a dark bruise forming along his left cheekbone, and his usually perfect hair was disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it all night.
He looked like hell.
“Mia,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I need to talk to you p>
“About what?” I kept my tone cold, uninterested. “If this is about Kyle p>
“It’s about Scarlett p>
The name made me pause. Morton’s eyes were bloodshot, the kind of exhaustion that came from not sleeping rather than drinking. His expensive suit was wrinkled, his tie missing entirely.
“What about Scarlett p>
Morton winced as he spoke, the movement pulling at his split lip. “She hit me. Last night. And then she blocked my number, deleted me from everything. I can’t reach her p>
I almost laughed. Almost.
“Good for her p>
“Mia, please p>
“No.” I started to close the door, but Morton’s hand shot out, pressing against the wood.
“Just listen to me for five minutes p>
“Morton, if you came here thinking I could help you contact Scarlett, you’re dead wrong p>
His shoulders sagged slightly, but he didn’t remove his hand from the door. “I know you’re angry—
“Angry?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “You think I’m angry p>
I unlatched the security chain and opened the door fully, stepping into the doorframe. Morton immediately backed up, probably recognizing the dangerous edge in my voice.
“First,” I said, holding up one finger, “I support Scarlett, not you. Just like when I asked you about Kyle’s fate, and you kept it from me p>
Morton’s face went pale beneath his bruises.
“Second, and more importantly, Scarlett’s anger is completely justified.” I took a step forward, and Morton took another step back. “What were you and Kyle doing? Enabling him to get engaged to a murderer p>
“Mia p>
“No, I’m not finished.” My voice was deadly quiet now. “By the way, tell Kyle that my sons no longer need any connection to him. Don’t hide in the shadows like a pervert, watching us from a distance. We’re done p>
Morton’s mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, might try to defend whatever twisted logic had guided his and Kyle’s actions over the past four years.
Instead, he nodded slowly. “I understand. But p>
“Stop.” I held up my hand. “I don’t want to hear your justifications. I don’t want to hear about protection or complicated situations or whatever bullshit excuse you’ve cooked up p>
The hallway was quiet except for the distant hum of the building’s heating system. Somewhere below us, a door slammed, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs.
“Thank you for your understanding,” I said, my voice dripping with false sweetness. “If you don’t want any more bruises on your face, leave now p>
Morton hesitated, his hand moving unconsciously to touch his swollen lip. For a moment, I thought he might say something else, might try one more time to explain or justify or defend.
But he just nodded again and turned away, walking toward the elevator with his shoulders hunched in defeat.
I watched him go, waiting until I heard the elevator doors close before stepping back into my apartment and locking the door behind me.
Thinking about how Scarlett and I had ended up with these two ex-husbands, I could only shake my head gently.
Morton’s appearance at my door meant that whatever had happened between him and Scarlett last night had been significant. Scarlett didn’t hit people lightly, even though she was an emotional person. But hitting someone was far from ordinary for her.
I decided to call Scarlett. She probably didn’t want to be alone right now.
I picked up my phone and sent her a message: “Hey, just wanted to check in on you. How are you doing p>
The response came almost immediately, which told me she was already awake. Maybe she hadn’t slept at all.
“Making coffee,” she wrote back. “Want to see my setup p>
Before I could respond, a video message came through. I opened it to find Scarlett standing in her pristine kitchen, wearing what appeared to be a formal black cocktail dress at six in the morning. Her red hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless.
“So,” her voice came through the phone speaker, “I’m using these Ethiopian beans that I had shipped in from this little roastery in Portland. They have notes of dark chocolate and orange zest, and the grind has to be exactly medium-coarse for optimal extraction p>
She continued for nearly three minutes, explaining the precise temperature of the water, the timing of the pour, the specific technique she was using with her French press. Her voice was bright, animated, almost manic in its enthusiasm.
This didn’t seem like the usual Scarlett. She rarely made coffee at six in the morning, preferring to grab something from the café downstairs or have her assistant bring her something later in the day.
But since she wasn’t drinking whiskey at six in the morning, that meant things weren’t too bad.
I called her back immediately.
“Scar,” I said when she picked up. “Are you okay p>
“Of course I’m okay!” Her voice was still unnaturally bright. “Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m having a lovely morning, making perfect coffee, wearing this absolutely gorgeous dress p>
“Isn’t wearing a formal cocktail dress at six AM a bit over the top p>
“Different dresses give me different moods,” she said. “Today I needed this fiery dress p>
I heard her take a sip of coffee, followed by a satisfied sigh.
“This coffee is perfect, by the way. Anger makes everything taste better p>
“I’m glad you’re not drinking whiskey at six AM p>
“Oh, I considered it. But then I realized that whiskey is what you drink when you’re sad and defeated. Coffee is what you drink when you’re planning world domination p>
“And are you? Planning world domination p>
“Something like that. I’m thinking of buying Morton’s building and evicting him. Is that too petty p>
“It depends p>
I pulled out my laptop and opened my email. “Scar, I have to go, Just got some emails to deal p>
We hung up.
I opened a new email and stared at the blank screen for a long moment, trying to find the right words.
“Dear Catherine,” I typed.
“I hope this email finds you well p>