Semua Bab Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Bab 111 - Bab 120

Logan Reynolds I’m pacing. Back and forth across this office like a damn lion in a cage. My jaw is tight, fists clenched, and my chest keeps rising with short, sharp breaths I can't seem to control. The blinds are drawn but the light cuts through in slants. The phones—both of them—won’t stop ringing. Office line, cell phone, even my iPad buzzed earlier like the whole world’s trying to get in my face at once. How the hell did this happen? "Mr. Reynolds," my secretary says breathlessly as she pokes her head back in for the third time in five minutes. Her bun’s unraveling and she looks like she just ran through a battlefield. "There’s at least ten reporters downstairs now. Two are from the Daily Post, and one claims she knows your father personally. I can't keep them away much longer." "That’s your job, isn’t it?" I snap, sharper than I intend. She flinches a little, but nods. “I’ll try.” And she’s gone. I rake both hands through my hair and just stand there for a second. Still.

Logan Reynolds The conference room smells like burnt coffee and tension. The AC hums overhead, but it’s not enough to cut through the heat rolling off me in waves. Everyone’s seated at the long glass table, their eyes flicking between the flat screen on the wall and me like I’m about to combust. Maybe I am.I lean forward, hands braced against the edge of the table, knuckles white. I haven’t sat since we started. I can’t. My legs are restless, my mind worse. Every second someone out there is watching that damn video on repeat—Viola and me, wrapped up in each other on the side of a public goddamn street like we’ve got no sense. No shame.My jaw’s tight. My temples pulse. This was supposed to stay quiet. Something private. Now it’s a headline.A scandal.“Alright,” I say, voice sharp, cutting through the silence. “Someone tell me how we’re going to fix this. Now.”Julia, our head of PR, clears her throat. She’s chewing on the cap of her pen, legs crossed tightly under her skirt lik

Viola McCoyThis is it. It’s happening.My phone has been buzzing nonstop all day—calls, texts, emails, DMs. It’s worse than when Logan and I got outed. This… this is a different kind of chaos. The truth is out. The secret I clung to like it was my final breath—it’s gone now. Airborne. My name, my story… they’re everywhere.I’m shortstuff002.I’m the author of Who Was I Before You?The internet is melting. Publishing houses are flooding my inbox, desperate to sign me. Fans—real people—are reaching out to tell me how my words changed something in them. That my pain gave them permission to name theirs. Some are connecting the dots faster than I ever expected, piecing together that the book wasn’t just fiction. That maybe… it was about me.And Julian knows it too.He’s been calling. Blowing up my phone like it’s his only weapon left. And maybe it is.Because if the world believes that story was about my life, then he’s no longer the grieving husband. He’s the man behind the curtain. The

Logan Reynolds The apartment is quiet once Logan leaves.I’m lying in bed, tucked in so carefully by him. Even now—after everything—I’m still trembling underneath.I said yes.I told him I’d move in. Not because I’m ready. Not because it feels like the right time. But because tonight… tonight I was genuinely scared Julian might kill me.Not with a gun. Not with a knife. But with his hands. His voice. His twisted love.The way his fingers wrapped around my neck like he owned me. Like he had the right to squeeze until I disappeared. I still feel the ghost of it, the pressure, the heat of his palm, his madness pressed into my skin.And now my heart won’t stop racing.There’s a knock at the door before it creaks open. Amirah slips in like she’s afraid of startling me. Her silhouette is soft in the dim light, the lamp casting golden hues across her face. She’s wearing her oversized “Don’t Kill My Vibe” hoodie and those fuzzy socks with little ears on the toes. “Hey,” she says gently,

Viola McCoy It’s moving day.And for the first time in a long time, I’m not dreading change. I’m not afraid of what’s waiting on the other side. I’m… ready.There’s a light knock at the door and I already know it’s him. I don’t even have to look through the peephole. I just know. That knock is so damn polite, it has Logan Reynolds written all over it.I open the door, and there he is, standing tall in a black tee that hugs his chest and a pair of jeans that make it real hard to pretend I’m not staring. A baseball cap sits backwards on his head, and the faintest shadow of stubble frames his jaw. “Ready to get the hell out of here?” he asks, grinning.“More than you know,” I say, stepping aside to let him in.Just a few Boxes are already stacked in the corner of the living room because I’ve not gotten the rest of my things from the house, but I still have a few more things to throw in. Logan walks over, grabs a roll of tape and a box cutter, and gets to work like he’s done this a m