The Adventures of Logan and His Not So Little Buddy

I suddenly went quiet. My voice was even calmer than usual.

"You guys decide. I have no objections."

Sean and Leo exchanged a look, seemingly baffled by my sudden shift.

But Celine's voice suddenly came through the phone, dripping with grievance.

"Maybe I shouldn't go to your wedding after all."

"I know Chloe still holds a grudge over that car crash. She definitely wouldn't want to see me there."

Hearing her words, Sean's brow instantly tightened.

Five years ago, it was Celine who insisted on dragging me, heavily pregnant and near my due date, to test-drive her newly modified racing car.

On the coastal highway, she ignored my desperate pleas and sped recklessly.

To dodge a truck, she yanked the steering wheel and slammed the brakes, causing my abdomen to smash into the dashboard, triggering a premature birth and severe hemorrhaging.

Before the family's medical team could arrive, she was terrified of Sean's punishment.

So she called him, crying and lying that we "were ambushed by a rival family's hitmen, and she had fought her way out to save us."

When Sean arrived at the hospital with his bodyguards, I had just been wheeled out of the emergency room.

Because the roadside surveillance and the car's dashcam were both destroyed, no one believed a word I said, no matter how many times I told the truth.

From that day on, Celine became the savior who risked her life to rescue me and Leo in Sean's eyes.

"Mommy, don't be mean to Daddy."

A crisp voice pulled me from my memories. Four-year-old Leo tugged at the hem of my shirt.

"Aunt Celine said she hurt her ankle really badly trying to save me back then, and it still hasn't fully healed."

"So you absolutely can't make Aunt Celine sad at this wedding, or else I won't like you anymore."

Sean naturally stroked our son's hair. When he looked up at me, his eyes held that same reproach.

As if blaming me for being less sensible than a child.

"Did you hear what Leo said, Chloe?"

"Even Leo knows how to be grateful."

"Tomorrow at 10 AM, we're going to the bridal boutique on Fifth Avenue for your fitting. Celine will be there too. Don't upset her again."

The next morning, at the bridal boutique.

The stylist walked out holding a tray. Resting quietly on it was a handcrafted ivy laurel crown, encrusted with sapphires.

As a senior art appraiser, I had spent half a year hand-drawing and designing that headpiece for myself.

Five years ago, we had hastily signed our marriage papers.

Sean had held my hand and promised that on the day of our official ceremony, he would crown me with it himself.

Yet now, that very crown was being casually toyed with in Celine's fingers.

She looked in the mirror and sighed deliberately.

"Sean, this crown matches the color of my eyes perfectly."

"It's a pity I'm only the maid of honor. If I wear this, Chloe will definitely think I'm stealing her thunder and blame me for that car crash all over again."

Sean stepped forward, his eyes softening.

He took the crown from her hands and gently pinned it into Celine's hair.

"She won't. Chloe isn't a vain woman."

"It looks perfect on you. I'll just have the workshop swap it out for a pearl hair comb for Chloe later."

The stylist shot me an awkward glance and whispered to Sean,

"But Don Sean, the base of this crown is engraved with Donna Chloe's initials..."

"Then change them."

Sean cut the stylist off impatiently.

"It's just a piece of jewelry. Why make such a fuss over it?"

Celine admired herself in the floor-to-length mirror with satisfaction.

Then, she feigned unease and reached up to take it off.

"Sean, maybe I should take it off."

"Chloe looks upset. I don't want to cause a fight between you two because of me."

She took a step back, but her hair intentionally caught on the silver wires of the crown. She let out a sharp cry of pain. "Hiss—that hurts."

Sean's face changed instantly.

He strode forward, grasping Celine's wrist, and carefully untangled her curls, his voice tight with anxiety.

"Don't move. What if you rip your hair out?"

After soothing Celine, Sean turned to look at me, his brow furrowed deeply.

"Chloe, who are you giving that attitude to?"

"Celine was left with lifelong trauma from rushing you to the hospital."

"Do you really think it's appropriate to pressure her over a damn headpiece?"

I looked at the man and woman standing so close in the mirror, feeling a sharp pang in the depths of my heart.

For five years, every time I tried to tell the truth, Celine would play the victim, and Sean would escalate his reprimands, calling me unreasonable.

He firmly believed his childhood sweetheart was innocent and pure, and that I was biting the hand that fed me.

I didn't shed a tear, nor did I argue.

I simply told the stylist in a calm voice:

"No need to alter it. Since Celine likes it so much, give it to her as a bridesmaid gift."

Sean froze for a second, seemingly surprised I had compromised so quickly this time.

He walked over and habitually stroked my cheek, his tone softening.

"That's right. That's my good wife. Tonight, I'll take you and Leo to that restaurant you've been wanting to try. Consider it my compensation."

But I turned my head, dodging his touch.

His hand hovered in mid-air, frozen. Then, he let out a helpless sigh and turned back to help Celine pick out her accessories.

I walked out of the boutique, pulled out my phone, and dialed the private number of the legal director at Boston's top art foundation.

"That independent partner contract you mentioned last week—I'll sign it now."