All Chapters of Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

Logan ReynoldsIt’s almost ten in the morning, and the house is quiet. Sunlight slants through the blinds in golden stripes, warming up the white tile floors and the side of my bare arm. I’m standing at the stove in a faded black tee and joggers, flipping pancakes and trying not to burn the damn things. They’re already uneven as hell, but I’m not about to admit I’m better with spreadsheets than spatulas.The kitchen smells like butter, vanilla, and a little bit of panic.She’s still upstairs. Probably curled up in one of my hoodies, her hair messy, face soft from sleep. The thought makes my chest tighten in the best kind of way. I’m not used to this—waking up and knowing she’s under my roof. Safe. Here.I pour another scoop of batter into the pan, watching it bubble. Then I hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. I glance toward the hallway, just in time to see her.Viola.She pads into the kitchen like a dream—barefoot, in an oversized white T-shirt that swallows her frame. The co

Viola McCoyThe drive back is quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind, though. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the breeze, and the city blurs past us in golden streaks. Logan has one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely on the gearshift. Every few minutes, his fingers twitch like he’s about to reach for me but decides against it.I don’t know what it is about him—this man with his soft mouth and hard knuckles and the most devastating patience I’ve ever known—but today, he gave me something I haven’t had in a long time.Joy.He made me laugh so hard I nearly cried. Made me forget the weight pressing against my chest most days. Made me feel… human again.Still, the moment we pull into his driveway, something inside me twists. We go inside, and he sets his keys on the table. I trail behind him, unzipping the hoodie I borrowed from his car, suddenly aware of the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint thump of his footsteps against the tile as he walks toward the sink.I st

Logan ReynoldsI step out of the shower, running a towel through my damp hair as steam clings to my skin. The mirror’s fogged over. My pulse is still a little fast, not from the water, but from her. Viola.She asked me out this morning.It wasn’t some big dramatic thing. No fluttering eyelashes or shy little stammer. She just said it. Bold. Soft. Honest. The kind of moment you know you’ll play over in your head a thousand times.I dry off, tug on a pair of sweats, and pad back toward the bedroom to grab a shirt—just in time to almost walk in on her changing.Shit.Viola’s halfway into a hoodie, arms raised above her head, the sunlight catching the smooth line of her bare back. I freeze at the threshold like a damn idiot, heart lurching up into my throat.“Sorry!” I say quickly, turning around so fast I nearly knock my shoulder into the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were changing.”“It’s okay,” she calls out casually, voice light. “You didn’t see anything scandalous.”That’s debatable.I

Viola McCoyThe sea breeze isn’t soft anymore. It cuts through me like glass.I’m still holding his phone.The message is burned into my brain now—simple, direct, emotionless.“Julian’s been taken care of. He won’t be a problem again.”My fingers tighten around the metal edge of the phone, the screen going black between my hands. I don’t say anything at first. I don’t even look at him.I hear the crunch of his shoes in the sand. His footsteps are slower now. Hesitant.“Vi,” Logan says, quiet. “I can explain.”I finally lift my eyes.“What did you do to Julian?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s cold. Barely above a whisper.His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak.I step back from the table. I’m still holding his phone. I can’t let go. My hands feel numb.“Logan.” I force myself to breathe, though my lungs feel tight. “Tell me the truth. All of it.”He drags a hand down his jaw, then finally meets my eyes. His shoulders fall.“I had him… convinced,” he says carefully, like that

Viola McCoyThe knock at the door echoes through the quiet apartment. My hand trembles for a second before I rise from the couch where I’ve been sitting, staring at the wall like it’s going to give me the answers I need.I wipe my palms on my lap and take a breath that feels too big for my chest.The knock comes again.I open the door.There he is—Logan, standing there with that cautious, hopeful look, like he’s holding his heart in his hands and just wants me to take it back.My throat tightens. Because yes, I’m hurt. Hurt deeper than I’ve let myself admit. But beneath that, there’s this gnawing question — did he really do something unforgivable? Or is it something I wanted all along, but was too afraid to ask for?I let the door stay open a crack, not sure what words will come out.He steps forward slowly. “Viola,” he says, voice low, almost breaking. “Can we talk?”I nod, stepping aside to let him in.He sits down carefully on the edge of the couch, like he’s bracing for impact. I