All Chapters of Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Viola McCoy The music in the lounge thuds low in the background, loud enough to fill the spaces between fake laughter and forced toasts. I walk in slowly, scanning the room. Everyone’s already here—Julian’s mother, some cousins I barely recognize, Amirah, and of course, the bride-to-be, Susan, perched at the center of it all like a crown jewel.I head straight for Amirah, letting my heels click intentionally on the polished floor. There was a time I used to shrink in spaces like this—measuring every word, every blink, every breath to win over Julian’s family. But not tonight.I sink into the seat beside Amirah and let my shoulders drop slightly, brushing against the soft velvet of the chair. I can feel Julian’s mother watching me from across the room. I glance over. She’s sipping something pale out of a crystal glass, lips pursed like she’s just tasted disappointment. The old me would’ve smiled, complimented her shoes, asked if she needed anything.Tonight, I don’t give a dam

Viola McCoy I stand in the hallway, frozen under the weight of all their eyes. Their whispers gather around us. Everyone is trying to piece together what they just heard. What they were never supposed to hear. Susan’s gone, ran off in her heels. A few others trail after her like sheep who don’t know if they should grieve or gossip. I don’t even know what to do. I don’t even know what to feel.I slip away while no one’s watching. My heels echo in the corridor as I walk. Logan’s close behind me. I don’t even turn to look at him—I can feel him in my bones.“Viola,” he says gently. “Are you okay?”I stop and look at him. His brows are drawn, jaw tight, eyes soft. I want to say yes. I want to tell him that I’m fine, that I can handle this, that tonight hasn’t broken me—but I can’t lie. Not to him. Not to myself.“I just… I need to be alone, Logan,” I whisper. My voice cracks on the last word.He shifts on his feet like he’s deciding whether to fight me on it. I can see it on his face

Logan Reynolds “It’s not what you’re—”Before I can finish the damn sentence, Julian lunges.His fist connects with my jaw hard enough to snap my head sideways. I stumble back, hitting the wall with a dull thud. The taste of copper floods my mouth, bitter and metallic. My vision blurs for a second, and all I see is the rage in his eyes—the way his chest heaves, his fists clenched like he’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.I blink. My body reacts before I think. My own fist cracks forward, clean and fast, and lands square against his cheek. He crashes down to the floor like deadweight, groaning. There’s shouting now. Chaos. A couple of the other guys at the party try to hold me back, one of them grabbing my shoulder, but I shrug him off.Julian pushes himself halfway up, his lip split, and yells through blood-stained teeth, “You want her? Take her. She was never worth it anyway.”The words hit harder than his punch. For a second, it’s like time just… stalls. The hallwa

Viola McCoy Viola McCoy I put on the last piece of jewelry—the gold earrings Julian’s mother gave me on my wedding day. They catch the light as I tuck a loose curl behind my ear. My reflection stares back at me from the vanity mirror. The warm, amber lights of the hotel bathroom halo me in a flattering glow. My skin looks smooth and my eyes are lined just enough. My lips, glossed in a muted berry pink, are parted slightly. There’s a quiet beauty in how still I am.My dress hugs me in all the right places—sleek, satin, pearl white. I breathe in, let the air fill my lungs and steel my nerves. Game face on.Time for Plan A.The hall is already bustling with sound and light. Strings of fairy lights line the high ceilings and a string quartet plays something classical that I don’t recognize. The scent of roses and candles curls through the air. Everything looks stunning. Beautiful. Fake. Just like this whole damn day.I spot Julian’s mother, Cicily, easily talking to a waiter near

Logan Reynolds The music swells again. We’re back under the glaring chandeliers, under the eyes of people too bored or too fake to notice that the bride and groom are practically trembling with each step.Susan is clutching Fred’s arm like a lifeline. He’s holding her steady, smiling through gritted teeth, and I can see the muscles in his jaw ticking from across the aisle. Viola walks just ahead of them in a sea-green satin gown, graceful, poised, like she hasn’t just broken into a safe and helped orchestrate an escape.Me? I’m the one trying not to bleed on my tie.We’ve rehearsed this. The plan is simple: walk them up the aisle, make it look like everything is peachy and proper, then slip out one by one. Cake-cutting distraction, kitchen route, maintenance exit. Freedom.And for a moment, it’s working.People rise from their chairs, a murmur of admiration sweeping across the ballroom. Phones flash. Cicily’s voice floats somewhere in the background. No one notices that Fred and S