of sheer hell she’d lived through between the time she’d started school and her diagnosis had been conveniently forgotten by everybody except herself.
Water under the bridge, Morgan reminded herself. And she knew her mum felt guilty for the part she’d played in the disaster that had been her education.
Morgan knew that it hadn’t been easy for her either. She’d been thrust into running MI in her mid-thirties, when her adventure-seeking husband had decided that he didn’t like the corporate life and wanted to be MI’s chief geologist, discovering new mines. Hannah, with her MBA in business and economics, had taken over the role of MI’s CEO, juggling its huge responsibilities with two children, one of whom had made her life a great deal more difficult by her inability to meet her mother’s and teachers’ expectations.
How often had she heard variations on the theme of, ‘She’s such a bright child; if only she would try harder.’
Nobody had ever realised how hard she’d always been trying, how incredibly frustrating it had been not to meet her goals and everybody else’s. Had they honestly believed that she didn’t want to learn to read and write properly? That she’d enjoyed being the class freak?
Ages eight to sixteen had been a suck-fest of epic proportions. Finally being diagnosed as being chronically dyslexic had freed her, a little, from the shame and guilt she’d felt for years. She’d started to believe that her learning disabilities weren’t her fault and her relationship with her family—well, mostly with her mother—had rapidly improved. Her mum was still a controlling corporate queen, and she still marched to the beat of her own drum, but they’d found a way back to each other—even if they did have to have this conversation every six months.
Morgan knew that she wasn’t stupid, but she also knew that working for MI would require computers and reading and writing reports. While she could do all of that, she just took longer than most—okay, a lot longer—and the corporate world couldn’t and wouldn’t wait that long. And shouldn’t...
Until she was the best person for a job, she wouldn’t take it. Not to mention that her dyslexia would become an open secret; she wouldn’t be able to keep it under wraps. Wouldn’t that be fun? She could just see the headlines: The ultimate dumb blonde... Gorgeous but thick... With her looks and money, who needs brains anyway?
She’d heard them all before—even from someone she’d loved...
Morgan shuddered. No, thank you. Call her stubborn, call her proud, but she wasn’t going to expose herself to that much ridicule again.
Besides, designing jewellery was her solace and her joy—her dream job. If only Hannah would see that and get off her back about working for MI her relationship with her mum would be pretty much perfect.
Morgan took her mum’s hand and squeezed. ‘I love you for the fact that you believe I should play a bigger part in MI, but I am neither qualified nor suited for the corporate world, Mum. I don’t want to be part of that world. I’m happy being on the fringes of MI.’
‘I will wear you down someday.’ Hannah sighed loudly. ‘On another subject, I want you to haul out your designer dresses and start creating hype around the ball at social events.’
Morgan gagged. ‘Ugh. Don’t I do enough already?’
‘Hardly.’ Hannah sniffed. ‘One function every two weeks and cutting out early isn’t good enough to promote your business, and not nearly good enough to promote the ball. You need to charm more people than you’re currently doing. Darling, you are a social disgrace. How many invitations did you turn down this week alone?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘Ten...twelve?’
‘Helen, my personal publicist, said that you were invited to at least twenty-five, maybe more. Soirées, charity dinners, afternoon teas, breakfasts...’
Morgan tipped her head and counted to ten, then thirty, before attempting to speak rationally. ‘Mum, I have a business to run, designs to get out the door. I work, just like you do. Okay, I don’t oversee a multinational company but I work. Hard.’
‘You’re a Moreau; you should be out more. Can you start going to some more formal parties? The benefits, the political fundraisers, the balls? That is where the money is, darling—the people who can actually afford the price of the ball tickets. We need to target the people who have the real money, and they are at the more sedate functions.’
Sedate meaning deadly dull. ‘Don’t nag me, Mother. You know I hate those stuffy functions where the conversation is so...intense. The situation in Syria, the economy, the plight of the rainforests.’
‘Because, you know, those issues aren’t important...’ Riley said, her tongue in her cheek.
Morgan glared at her. ‘I feel...’ She wanted to say stupid but instead said, ‘I feel out of place there.’
Like all the other issues related to her dyslexia, it had taken her many years to conquer her social awkwardness and to decode social cues. She still battled with new situations, and she knew that many people took her occasional lapses of concentration and her social shyness as self-absorption and disinterest. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She generally loved people, but she could never tell if they loved her back.
When she added that to her ‘I wonder if he sees me or just the family money’ concerns, dating was a bit of a nightmare...
And, really, she would rather have a beer in a pub in jeans and a T-shirt than be in a ballroom in shoes that hurt her feet.
Riley smiled at her and Morgan recognised the mischievous glint in her eyes.
‘You poor child...being forced to dress up, drink the best champagne in the world and eat the finest food at functions that are by invitation only. It’s almost abuse—really, it is.’
Morgan’s searing look promised retribution for Riley’s teasing and her encouragement of her mother’s campaign to get her to be the reigning young socialite of New York City.
Morgan wrinkled her nose at her mother. ‘You and James just do it so much better than me. You’re suave and sophisticated and far more charming than I’ll ever be—with or without the big D. Look, we’ve discussed my contribution to the ball so can I go now?’ Morgan asked hopefully.
‘No, I’d still like you to attend this first planning meeting with Riley, Jack—our PR director—and the new consultant James has appointed to assess security,’ Hannah said as they walked down the carpeted passage to the boardroom.
On the walls either side were framed photographs of the Moreau collection of jewels.
‘Why can’t Moreau’s own Chief of Security handle it? He always has,’ Morgan said, because she felt she should show some interest.
‘Since the last Moreau ball there have been a number of armed robberies on jewellery exhibitions.’ Hannah rapped her fist against the frame that held a picture of the Moreau Diamond—a gem Morgan’s three times great-grandfather Moreau had bought from a broke Russian aristocrat and which had once been owned by Elizabeth of Russia. ‘Fifty-three carats, D-colour, flawless. Worth more than five million dollars. You want to risk it getting stolen?’
When she put it like that...
‘Our jewellery collection is priceless, Morgan, so James has
