All Chapters of Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Logan ReynoldsI’m half-asleep when the buzz jerks me awake. The screen glares back at me — 11:30 p.m. I groan and shift onto my side, ready to silence it, but the name stops me.Viola.I stare at it. She’s been calling. And I’ve been ignoring. I thought she’d give up. I was counting on it, honestly. But now, for some reason I can’t name, I pick up.“Hello?” I croak.But it’s not her voice. It’s a man. “Hey, uh… sorry to bother you. You’re listed as an emergency contact for a Viola McCoy?”My stomach clenches. “Yeah. Is she okay?”“She’s at my bar. Drunk. I’m closing up soon, just didn’t want to leave her alone.”He sounds casual, but my heart's already slamming in my chest. I throw the covers off and I'm already reaching for my coat. “Is she hurt? Is she… alright?”“She’s breathing, man. Just slurring and barely awake. Figured she needed someone.”I’m not even wearing socks. “Where are you? Shit—what bar?”There’s a pause, then he rattles off an address. I mutter a quick “I’ll be the

Viola McCoy The taxi pulls up in front of the Antares Law Firm—a sleek building of steel and frosted glass. I sit there for a moment, fingers twisted tightly around the strap of my purse, before I finally pay the driver and step out. My flats crunch against the pavement, and the second I look up, the sun burns hot and high above me, branding my skin through the light floral fabric of my dress. There’s no wind. Just this heavy, still heat clinging to the air. I walk through the rotating doors and into the chilled lobby, the air conditioning hits me immediately. The space smells like lemon polish and a hint of coffee. The elevator dings as it opens and I step inside, clutching my purse to my chest. Third floor. I press the button, and the slow hum of movement begins. I watch the numbers blink upward. When the doors part, I’m greeted by the hallway: white walls, framed legal certifications, a long runner carpet in a dull navy blue. It doesn’t feel like a place you walk into whe

Viola McCoy The lock clicks behind me, and I step into the apartment.It’s quiet. .The city outside hums faintly through the windows. I don’t bother turning on the lights. The hallway is soaked in warm orange from the evening sun bleeding through the curtains. My heels click softly against the wooden floor, and I head straight to the bedroom like I’ve been holding my breath all day.I toss my bag on the armchair and grab my phone off the nightstand.Still nothing from him.I unlock it and text Amirah.Viola: Where are you?Seconds pass. Then it buzzes.Amirah: Had errands to run. Be back soon xxI sigh and let the phone slip from my hand. It lands softly on the duvet.My chest is tight. The kind of tight that feels like something’s crawling up my throat but won’t come out. I press a hand to my sternum and close my eyes for a second.Maybe I’m just tired.Maybe I’m just—Buzz.I snatch the phone back up, my heart instantly skipping. I don’t even think before I look.Please. Pleas

Logan Reynolds “Mr. Reynolds?” I hear my name, but it doesn’t register at first. It cuts through the fog like a dull blade, not sharp enough to snap me out of it immediately. “Mr. Reynolds?” The second time, it lands. I blink, straightening in my chair as I realize everyone in the conference room is looking at me. Half of them have pens poised above notepads, waiting. The other half have that tight, polite expression people wear when their boss is clearly somewhere else. I clear my throat and shift in my seat. “Meeting’s over.” No one argues. They gather their things quickly, a few exchanging glances on the way out. Maybe they think I’m losing it. Maybe I am. Either way, I don’t have the energy to care. I stand, tug at my cuffs, and walk out without another word. The hallway is bright. My footsteps echo too loudly on the polished floors. I push open the door to my office and shut it behind me with a little more force than necessary. The moment I’m alone, the facade drops. My s

Logan Reynolds I feel like I’m floating. Like gravity doesn’t even apply to me anymore. Not tonight. Not after what just happened. Viola McCoy said she loves me. The words keep echoing in my head like a song I don’t want to turn off. Every time I replay it, my chest tightens in the best damn way. I glance over at her. She’s in the passenger seat, quiet, looking out the window like she’s trying not to smile. Her fingers are laced with mine—our hands resting between us on the center console—and her thumb keeps brushing against my skin. Absentminded. Tender. It's driving me insane in the best possible way. My other hand is on the steering wheel. We're cruising down the quiet streets, the city lights bleeding through the windshield. It's late, and the roads are mostly empty. Just us. And for once, that feels like enough. I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it,” I say, voice low. She turns to me slowly. “Me too.” I glance at her again. Her lips are curved in