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Authenticity

Penulis: Siwa Rose
last update Terakhir Diperbarui: 2025-06-09 22:46:32

Viola McCoy

The elevator ride up to the executive floor feels longer than it should.

Maybe it’s the silence. Logan’s next to me, tall and steady, wearing that navy button-up I love, hands tucked into his slacks like he doesn’t have a single worry in the world. Meanwhile, I’m clutching a laptop case like it’s a bulletproof vest and silently running through every line of my presentation.

Again.

My palms are damp. My stomach’s a mess of iced coffee and nerves. This isn’t about my book. Not anymore.

This is bigger than that.

Logan looks at me as the elevator dings open. “You ready?”

I meet his eyes, and for a second, everything steadies.

He believes in me. Even if my voice shakes. Even if they don’t.

“I’m ready.”

The conference room is glass-walled and sleek, overlooking downtown Chicago. A long table dominates the room, flanked by a handful of Logan’s senior team—editors, brand strategists, the head of marketing. Familiar faces, some I’ve seen in passing, some I only know from articles.

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  • Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine   Fireworks

    Viola McCoyThe night feels still in a way that makes me restless.The lamp beside me flickers faintly, and the shadows in my little bedroom stretch and shrink against the cracked wooden floors.I sit curled up on the edge of my bed, knees pulled to my chest, the pale light of my laptop painting my face in blue. I’ve been staring at the same page for nearly twenty minutes.Aiden_22.I exhales slowly, fingers hovering above the trackpad. My heart beats a little louder in my ears.There they are. The messages. The ones that once held me together when everything else was falling apart. The gentle encouragements. The way he always seemed to know when I needed a reminder that my words mattered, that I mattered.I click one open.“You have a voice that heals people, Shortstuff. Don’t let them silence it.”My throat tightens. I reads another.“I know the way you write pain like it’s a language. I’d follow your words anywhere.”And another.“You said you’re invisible. But I see you. I always

  • Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine   Trying

    Logan Reynolds I see the way Dr Phil looks at Viola.Like she’s already his.Like he’s just waiting for her to give the green light and he’ll swoop in—offering peace and predictability in a way I never could. Dr. Phil Coleman. Small-town golden boy. Perfect teeth, pressed shirts, gentle hands.Yeah, I know his type. And I know exactly what he’s doing.He’s trying to win her over.And I can’t even blame him. Viola’s the kind of woman who makes you believe in something again just by walking into the room. She’s calm and complicated and fierce and broken—and even when she’s silent, she feels louder than anyone else in the room.But if Phil thinks I’m just going to fade into the background and hand her over, he doesn’t know a damn thing about me.I’m not fighting with fists anymore.This time, I’m fighting with patience. With kindness. With small, steady things that build a life.It starts with her mailbox.The little metal thing has been crooked since she moved in. The hinge creaks ever

  • Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine   Feeling It

    Viola McCoyI hear it before I see her.A soft knock. Three gentle taps. Then silence.I’m standing in my tiny kitchen, stirring honey into lukewarm tea, trying not to think about Logan or the fact that he’s now living right next door with the child that tore my heart in two. I’ve managed to avoid them for three whole days. Every time I hear little feet running on the gravel outside or a high-pitched giggle bouncing across the backyard fence, I shut my windows.But the knock returns. Lighter this time. Then a voice.“Pretty lady? Are you in there?”My breath catches in my throat.Missy.I close my eyes and steady my hands against the counter. Maybe if I’m quiet, she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll think I’m not home. But she knocks again—persistent, patient.“Pretty lady… I made you a picture.”My resolve crumbles.I open the door just a crack, and there she is.Big brown eyes. Curly hair tucked under a pink knitted hat. A paper clutched tightly in her tiny hands—creased and slightly smudged,

  • Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine   Pretty Lady

    Viola McCoyThe clinic is quiet, save for the scratch of my pen against the ledger and the occasional beep from the front desk monitor. It’s the first morning I’ve felt a little less hollow. Not whole—but not crumbling either.Until the bell rings.I glance up, expecting an elderly patient or one of the nurses returning from break. But instead, I see a small figure standing in the doorway.Big eyes. Light-up sneakers. Crayons tucked in the crook of one arm.And dimples.Missy.My heart lodges in my throat. My grip tightens on the pen until it creaks.She beams when she sees me. “It’s the pretty lady!”Pretty lady.The air whooshes out of me.She skips toward the counter and before I can react, she’s already walked around and into the employee area, wrapping her arms around my legs.“Pretty lady,” she says again, softer this time. “Where have you been?”I can’t breathe. I don’t even know what to say.Her voice is so sweet. So innocent.I finally croak, “How… how are you here?”She grin

  • Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine   Winning

    Logan Reynolds“I thought you said we’re going on vacation,” Missy says as she waddles toward her tiny suitcase, dragging it across the floor with dramatic effort.“We are,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “Just you and me.”She beams like it’s Christmas morning. “Can I bring my crayons?”“Of course.”She runs off to get them, singing that nonsense tune she always hums when she’s excited—half melody, half magic. I watch her carefully zip them into the side pocket like it’s treasure. Maybe to her, it is.I’ve been calling it a vacation for her sake. But that’s not what this is. Not for me.For me, it’s a last-ditch effort. A risk. A prayer.Because I found her.I found Viola.A little house in a town with more trees than streetlights. Amirah didn’t give me the address—I had to find it myself. And I still don’t know what I’ll say when I see her. I just know I can’t stay away anymore. Not when every night in that empty house with Missy feels like I’m drowning in everything I destroyed.So I

  • Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine   The Quiet

    Viola McCoyThe quiet hits first.No horns. No sirens. No clacking heels on pavement or elevator dings. Just birdsong. The rustle of trees. The occasional car crunching down a gravel road.It’s unsettling at first but I settle into it slowly. Like slipping into a bath that’s too hot at first, but soon becomes exactly what you didn’t know you needed.The little house I’ve rented is old but sweet. Pale yellow with white trim. A tiny porch and chipped wooden steps. The kind of place that feels like it holds memories, even if they aren’t mine.I unpack the last box and place it in the corner like a ceremony. I haven’t put anything up on the walls. I don’t know if I want to. It still feels temporary, even though I keep telling myself I left for good.I grab a light jacket and walk.There’s a stretch of road lined with trees that leads into the town center—a small strip with a bakery, post office, diner, bookstore, and a modest little clinic tucked beside a flower shop.I don’t plan on goin

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