Bash picked her up, and Morgan stood from the bed, hurrying over to take her daughter from his arms.

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing, Bash. The applications,” she said. “To medical school. I should be starting a program by now. You don’t have to stop that anymore. I get what’s at stake. I’ve been here with you. For weeks, I haven’t left this house. Can you at least stop your mom from freezing my apps? Bash, I worked hard for this.”

Morgan had put her all into those two years at Cambridge. Flying back and forth between Michigan and London, keeping her GPA high enough to remain eligible to participate in the exchange program. It had done her well to focus on her studies instead of on the pain Messiah had left behind. Morgan was sure it was the reason she hadn’t noticed that things were awry with Bash. She had been too focused to focus on him. Now that her options were being taken away, all she could think about was how she didn’t belong here.

“Medical school will be a distraction,” Bash said.

“A distraction from what?” Morgan replied. “I’m not doing anything here but sipping tea and smiling for your mama and her old-ass friends.”

“You have a wedding to plan,” Bash stated. “Focus on that. After the wedding and the baby, we’ll talk about school.”

“You can’t be serious,” Morgan protested.

“It’s your role, Mo. I’m a man that’s expected to marry and build a legacy. I love the twins, but they’re not my bloodline. I need a son. We’ll try until you give me one.”

Morgan scoffed. The notion was ridiculous. The expectation, outrageous. Morgan was only sexually free with men she trusted not to enslave her. She had trusted Messiah’s touch. He had been her first willing sexual encounter, and although Ahmeek was never supposed to be one she experienced at all, he touched her with such love that Morgan had no regrets. Bash could never. Bash would never. Sex was mental for Morgan. Her emotions were expensive, and Bash, although royal, was cheap. She would never have his children.

“I have two kids, Bash. I’m twenty-one years old. I want to do more than lay on my back and have babies. If not school, what about dancing? I could be auditioning—”

“You’re better than that, Mo. It was sexy when I met you. It was a hobby. It’s not a career. Your ear for music is a little off anyway, don’t you think? I mean, the gimmick is cool. The whole deaf dancer thing, but next to professional dancers at an audition? You really think you’d make the cut? It’s time to be realistic.”