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Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Epilogue
Viola McCoy Five months.It’s been five months of quiet. Five months of Sunday mornings tangled in sheets, of Logan’s toast always being a little burnt and Missy insisting on pouring her own cereal—and spilling half of it. Five months of this gentle, sprawling love that doesn’t ask to be proven anymore. It just is. Present. Steady. Like breath.And today… today is ordinary. Except it isn’t.I’m sitting on the bathroom floor with the morning sun slicing through the window. Missy’s singing somewhere down the hall—something off-key about purple dinosaurs and sparkles. I can hear Logan in the kitchen, humming and trying to convince the coffee maker not to betray him again.And in my hand, there it is.Two lines. Clear as day. Unmistakable. My heart does something strange—skips, stutters, and then soars.I press my palm to my belly. It’s still flat. Nothing looks different yet. But everything feels different. All at once. There’s fear—of course there is. After everything. After the years
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Mine Finally
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
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Better
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.”
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Reunite
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
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Future
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
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Family Date
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
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