Semua Bab Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Bab 151 - Bab 160

151I don’t mean to drive with tears in my eyes. I don’t mean to dig my nails into the steering wheel or choke on the sound of my own breathing. But here I am—thirty minutes after storming out of the house I share with the man I love—barely holding myself together in the driver’s seat of my car.I hate this.I hate myself.Not because I was upset, but because I didn’t even let him explain. Because I saw that look on Logan’s face—that quiet mix of confusion and hurt—and I still walked out. Slammed the door behind me like I was seventeen again, trying to punish the world for not understanding me. Like he deserved to pay for my silence.The streetlights blur in front of me. Every red light stretches longer than the one before it, as if the universe is forcing me to sit with my shame. And maybe I deserve that.When I pull up in front of Amirah’s apartment, I’m already wiping my cheeks with the sleeve of my hoodie. The same hoodie Logan gave me last fall—the one that still smells like his

Viola’s POVThe mirror in the hotel room catches the soft, golden light filtering in from the windows. It hits the satin of my dress just right, casting a dreamy shimmer along the curves of my body. I exhale, smoothing my palms over the skirt, then glance at my reflection. My hair is swept up into soft curls, pinned delicately with crystal clips that sparkle like stars. The soft champagne color of the dress Logan picked makes my skin glow.I never imagined I’d throw myself a party here—on the rooftop of City Hall of all places—but here I am, twenty-seven, standing a little taller than I used to, finally proud of the woman I’ve become. The woman who didn’t disappear. The woman who kept writing, even when her heart was shattered and her spirit tired.I blink at my reflection. A small, shaky smile curls across my lips.The door creaks open behind me, and I catch his scent before I even turn—warm cedarwood and fresh laundry. I don’t have to look to know it’s Logan.“Damn,” he murmurs, le

Logan Reynolds There’s something about the way she sleeps that makes me forget the rest of the world exists. Viola’s curled into my side, one arm draped across my chest, her breathing steady and warm against my skin. The morning light slips through the cracked blinds, painting soft gold across the arch of her bare shoulder. Her ring catches the light—my ring—and a strange calm settles in my chest. This is what peace looks like. Her. Here. Now. I brush a knuckle across her cheekbone. She doesn’t stir. She’s been working harder than ever—prepping for this co-writing project with Adrian Sullivan like it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. And it is. The man is a damn legend. And she’s not just holding her own—she’s shining. I should be jealous. Another man’s name flying around our apartment more than mine lately. But truthfully? I’m proud. Proud in that quiet, possessive way you are when you know you’ve got something rare. Someone rare. Still, I haven’t told her how little sleep I’ve

Logan Reynolds I’m ten minutes early, but she’s already there. Camile sits at a corner table in the café with a cup of tea in front of her and a little girl perched in the chair beside her. Her legs are swinging, curls bouncing as she plays with the sugar packets. My heart stutters. She’s smaller than I imagined. Round cheeks. Eyes too big for her face. And those dimples. Jesus. Those dimples are mine. I freeze just inside the doorway. For a moment, I’m not a man anymore—I’m a memory. A night I buried. A mistake I’d convinced myself didn’t have consequences. But here she is. The consequence. A living, breathing little girl in a pink dress with juice stains and a tiny voice that’s humming something under her breath. Something from a cartoon, maybe. Camile sees me and lifts her hand in a lazy wave. I walk over like I’m being marched to a firing squad. “Logan,” “Camile.” She gestures to the chair across from her. “Sit.” I do, but my eyes don’t leave the child. She’s looking

Logan Reynolds “Proof” Something’s off with her. Viola brushes her teeth beside me like she always does. She kisses me goodnight like she always does. She folds her socks weird and leaves her mug in the sink instead of the dishwasher—like always. But her eyes are quieter tonight. I know that look. She’s retreating. Even after everything I said to her, she’s still retreating. I wait until we’re both under the covers. I can feel the tension radiating off her skin even though her head is on my chest. My hand moves on instinct, drawing soft circles into her back. “You’re quiet again,” I murmur. “I’m just tired.” I pause, press a kiss into her hair. “You know I’m here, right? Whenever you’re ready to talk more.” Her breath catches for a second. Then she nods. “Yeah. I know.” I tuck her in gently after she falls asleep, brushing a loose curl off her cheek. She doesn’t even stir. Her body’s here, but I can tell her mind is still far away. And still… my own guilt claws harder tha