“Damn it, Viola! Do you even hear yourself? You’re miserable, and you’re pretending it’s normal!” Logan says, clenching his fists beside him. I drag in a shaky breath. “What do you want me to do, Logan? Just leave my marriage?” “Yes!” I freeze. He steps closer. “Leave. And let me love you the way you deserve.” *** She thought heartbreak was the worst thing he could do to her. Then he came back. Three years ago, Logan Reynolds chose ambition over love, leaving Viola McCoy behind—and breaking her heart in the process. Determined to move on, she made a choice—one that led her into the arms of Julian Cruz, a man who vowed to love her but only saw her as a means to an end. Now, trapped in a loveless marriage, Viola endures the whispers, the neglect, and the bruises she hides beneath designer sleeves. But when Logan returns as the new CEO of Reynolds Publishing—her boss—Viola’s carefully constructed world begins to crack. He sees through her forced smiles and polite lies. He soon realizes the woman he left behind is still fighting to be heard. Logan is determined to save her. Viola? She’s certain she can’t be saved. But in the middle of stolen glances, midnight confessions, and the words they can’t say out loud, one question remains: Can love be rewritten, or are some stories doomed to end the same way twice?
ดูเพิ่มเติมViola McCoy
He didn’t show up. He never has. But this time, I really thought he would. A knot forms at the pit of my stomach. Why did I let myself hope this time? Maybe because I had woken up to Julian, my husband, holding a bouquet of flowers and waiting to hand them to me as soon as I’d woken up. Even though it’s my birthday, I hadn’t expected him to do something special for me. He’s not done something special for me in a long long time. But still, that simple gesture—coupled with the special dinner he’d said he planned for both of us this evening—had made me hope he really meant every word he said. But he didn’t. And now, I’m sitting alone at Chilvary Restaurant, staring at the untouched candle on my cake. I exhale slowly, forcing down the sting of humiliation. I can leave. I should leave. But instead, I continue to sit there, waiting, just like I always do. The restaurant doors swing open, and for a brief, stupid second, I think it’s him. It isn’t. The candle on my cake continues to flicker. The waiter shifts awkwardly beside me, clearing his throat. Across the room, a couple laughs, clinking glasses. “Ma’am, would you like to order now, or…?” The waiter hesitates. His polite smile is forced. I force one back, gripping the napkin in my lap. I shake my head. “Just a few more minutes.” The waiter gives me another one of his pitiful smiles and walks away. I check my phone again. No messages from Julian. Nothing. All my calls have gone to voicemail. This isn’t the first time he’s let me down. He’s never made me a priority and I’ve had to put up with dozens of missed dates, canceled trips, and broken promises over the past two years we’ve been married. Before marriage, he treated me like I was his whole world. And me? I was just healing from a huge breakup that almost shattered me. He was there to help me piece my life back together. If only I’d known he would be the one to shatter everything all over again. I finally have a good reason to cry, but no tears come. I just feel…numb. I continue to stare at the cake in front of me. My stomach churns. The waiter is back. He shifts beside me, clearing his throat again. I know what he’s about to say. He pities me. And I hate that look on his face. The look on everyone’s face everytime they glance at the lonely woman sitted alone at the table for two on her birthday. “Ma’am…” the waiter’s voice is softer this time. A bit apologetic too. “Would you like to take the cake to go?” I bite my lower lip a little too hard. “Ten more minutes.” The waiter gives me a polite nod and turns away. Maybe Julian will show up. Maybe he’s just late. As our relationship frayed further every day, I’d hoped this dinner would bring us closer again. Make him fall in love with me the way he had a lifetime ago. I’d hope this one dinner would make me forget every moment he never put me first, every moment he got a little violent and every moment he made me feel like I was nobody to him. Like I was just his trophy wife, nothing else. But as I stare down at my palms, I realize that’s impossible because neither of us are the same person we used to be. Julian isn’t the man who made me fifty origami versions of my favorite flowers for my birthday, and I’m no longer the woman who floated through life with stars and dreams in her eyes. A salty trickle of tear finally snakes its way down my cheek and shocks me out of my frozen stupor. I stand, my breaths shallowing with each step as I walk quickly to the restaurant’s hallway. The other couples stationed close to my table are too lost in their perfect worlds to notice my silent breakdown. But I can’t bear the thought of crying alone with people staring at me. I’m the wife of Julian Cruz anyways. Any small mishap might prove fatal to his reputation. I walk into the quiet restroom, leaning against the vanity. So, so stupid. What made me think tonight would be different? My birthday probably means as much to Julian as I do. Dull pain sharpens into knives as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Brown straight hair, blue eyes, tanned skin. I’m in one of my favorite corset dresses too which at this moment feels too tight. I look the same as I always do, but I hardly recognize myself. It’s like seeing a stranger wear my face. Where’s the girl who managed to grow up well even after her mother died too early? Who'd managed to recover after her four year relationship ended? Where’s the girl who managed to have a life of her own even after her rich conglomerate father died and left nothing in her name? Who’d lived life with unapologetic joy? That girl would never wait around for a man. But that girl was no more because somewhere along the way, she’s fallen by the wayside and has been consumed by a toxic marriage. She’s been replaced by a coward. A coward who has no more strength to fight. A coward who is scared to start over because she has no one and no where to go. A coward who’s accepted her fate. The dam finally bursts. A solitary tear turns into two, then three, then a whole flood as I sink to the floor and cry. Every heartbreak, every disappointment, every piece of sadness I’ve harbored pours out in a river of tears. Cold, hard tile digs into the backs of my thighs as I drag in ragged breaths. I continue to let it all out until I can no longer feel anything. I manage to get back on my feet and stare into the mirror. My dress feels like it’s strangling me. Too tight. Too much. My throat burns from swallowing sobs and my smudged mascara continues to sting my eyes, making it worse. I press my palms against the cold sink, but it doesn’t steady me. Nothing does. My phone buzzes in my purse and I pull it out. It’s an incoming call from Amirah. She’s my best friend who I’ve known for two years. She’s a fashion stylist and I met her around the time Julian and I wanted to get married. Amirah was the one who designed my wedding dress. And now even after a long time, she’s still a part of my life. “How’s the dinner going?” comes Amirah’s chirpy voice from the other end of the line. My fingers tighten around the phone. This is Amirah. She’s my best friend. I could tell her. But the words lodge in my throat because my throat feels hoarse from crying. If I say it out loud, then it’s real. And I’m not ready for that. “It’s going great.” I manage to say. I can’t tell her Julian bailed. She doesn’t know anything about what’s going on in my marriage. And I don’t want to burden her either. “You don’t sound great.” Amirah cuts in. “I’m fine. I need to get back to dinner now.” There’s a beat of silence. “You’re sure you’re okay, Viola?” The desire to tell her the truth and the need to just keep it all to myself, rages a furious battle in me. In the end, the latter wins and I’m already telling her I’m fine. “Happy birthday once more.” Amirah said before finally ending the call. I sigh in relief as I put my phone back into my purse. My reflection in the mirror seems a bit better now as my eyes no longer look puffy. I put on my best fake smile and walk out of the restroom into the hallway. As I make my way back to my table, my phone buzzes again. My phone buzzes in my purse. I reach for it with my heart pounding. Maybe it’s him. Finally. An apology. An explanation. Something. But it isn’t. It’s an article. I click on it without thinking… And my world stops. There’s a picture of Julian. He’s not alone. He’s at the bar, leaning close to a woman in a sleek red dress. Laughing. His hand is resting on her thigh. All blood drains from my face. And the headlines? “Chicago’s golden boy, Julian Cruz out with his mystery woman—where’s wifey?" My heart shatters. But not from surprise. From knowing I should’ve seen this coming.Wedding DayLogan ReynoldsIt’s early—too early for a man who barely slept last night, but I’m wide awake.I keep checking my watch even though there’s still an hour before the ceremony. I’ve straightened my tie at least ten times and stared out the window more than I’ve blinked. I’m not nervous. I’m… something else. We’re in the garden behind the little chapel we rented off a road in the countryside. The sun is soft. Everything smells like grass, lavender, and wood polish. Chairs are lined up in two rows, white ribbons curling lazily in the breeze. Phil insisted on handling the seating chart. Viola let him—on the condition he didn’t read anything poetic during the ceremony.Missy is running in circles around me, still in her frilly white dress and sparkly sneakers. I told her not to get dirty. She told me she was “blessing the ground with joy.” I gave up.“You look fancy,” she says, hopping to a stop in front of me. “Like a prince.”I crouch down and smooth her curls back from her
Viola McCoyThree Months LaterThe house is loud. Not loud in the tragic, everything-is-falling-apart kind of way it used to be. Loud in the beautiful, sticky, messy, lived-in kind of way. There’s cereal spilled on the floor, my phone is ringing from somewhere under a throw pillow, and Missy is singing—very off-key—from the bathroom.“Missy!” I shout over the whir of the electric toothbrush she’s definitely just using to clean the mirror. “Where are your shoes?”A beat. “Under the couch! Or maybe the fridge!”I blink. “The fridge?”Logan walks past me in the kitchen, dressed in a crisp white shirt—only halfway buttoned—and a navy tie draped around his neck. He’s sipping his third cup of coffee. “Don’t ask. She put a sock in the toaster yesterday.”He plants a quick kiss on my temple as he passes, and I pretend not to melt a little inside. “You’re enabling her,” I mumble.He smirks without looking back. “You’re the one who taught her how to use metaphors. I’m just here for the chaos.”
Logan Reynolds I’ve been thinking about this for days.Weeks, if I’m being honest. Maybe even since the moment Viola left Chicago with her heart in pieces and my daughter in my arms.And now, every morning I wake up to the sound of Missy humming while drawing pictures on the floor, or asking if we can bring the “pretty lady” flowers again, I realize—I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.I want her. I want us.So when Missy climbs onto my lap one rainy afternoon, coloring marker smudges all over her cheeks, I ask her if she wants to make something special for Viola.She tilts her head like she’s thinking hard. “Like… pancakes?”I chuckle and shake my head. “Not pancakes this time. Something from your heart.”She gasps. “Like Valentine’s!”Close enough.We spread everything out on the kitchen table—construction paper, glue sticks, stickers, glitter (God help me), and crayons. I grab the card stock and fold it into a shape. Missy draws crooked hearts and stick figures of the three
Viola McCoyThe cursor blinks at me.I stare at the email draft, fingers hovering just above the keyboard. I type the words slowly.Hi, I’m ready again.Just that. Five words. And then I hit send.It feels like reclaiming a piece of myself. Like stepping back into my own body after floating outside of it for too long. I close the laptop and sit there in the quiet for a moment, letting the silence hum.Then I pick up my phone and scroll to Bonnie’s contact.I hesitate.We haven’t really spoken since everything went sideways—since Camille, since Missy, since Logan’s silence turned into something else entirely.But I hit call.She answers on the second ring. “Well, damn. Look who finally remembered they have a phone.”Her voice hits me like a breeze through a window I didn’t know was open.“Hi,” I say softly.“Don’t you hi me,” she snaps—but I can hear the smile behind it. “Are you okay?”I nod, though she can’t see me. “Getting there.”There’s a pause. A deep one.“Vi… I’m sorry. For ev
Logan Reynolds The sun’s barely crested the hills when Missy bursts into the living room, her curls wild and a sock half-off one foot. “Are we still going on our big adventure?” she asks, arms already outstretched for me to hoist her up.I grin, ruffling her hair. “Of course we are, kiddo. Get your shoes on—both of them—and let’s pack up.”She giggles and runs off. Viola pokes her head out of the bedroom. She’s got that slow, sleepy smile I used to dream about seeing again. And now it’s real.“You’re really going through with this day trip?” she asks.I shrug and try to keep it casual. “Thought we could all use a little sun. You in?”There’s a pause. I hold my breath. Then she nods. “I’ll grab my sweater.”I don’t let my face show it, but something inside me unclenches.The drive is filled with Missy’s nonstop narration from the backseat. Every cow we pass is a long-lost friend. Every bump in the road is a roller coaster. Viola laughs a little when I flinch at her dramatic gasps—most
Viola McCoySomewhere between morning coffee and the sound of Missy’s laughter spilling through the wall, I stop keeping count of the days Logan’s been here.I told myself it was temporary.I told myself I needed distance.But Logan… he’s here. He fixes the crooked mailbox post without asking.Leaves my favorite coffee on the porch when it rains or doesn’t.I pretend I don’t notice. But I always drink it.Phil says I’m stronger than I give myself credit for. That healing doesn’t have to mean reopening old doors. He wants to be that clean, uncomplicated option. And maybe a few months ago, I would’ve clung to that idea like a lifeline.But Logan isn’t the man who shattered me anymore.He’s the man who’s slowly learning how to hold space.And Missy… she’s the part I didn’t see coming.One evening, I’m curled up on my couch in my softest sweatshirt. I hear the familiar knock—a soft tap tap tap—before I even see her.Missy.She pokes her head through the cracked door and flashes me a shy g
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