All Chapters of Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Viola McCoy I slam the door behind me and lock it.My back hits the wood, and I slide to the floor like I’ve been shot in the chest. The sob that escapes me is raw and sudden, like it’s been sitting in my throat for years just waiting for a chance to scream its way out.The room is dim—one of the guest suites with golden wallpaper. The bed’s still made. The lights are off except for the lamp in the corner. It smells like polished furniture and roses. I pull my knees to my chest.And then I cry.I cry like my body’s collapsing inward. Like every ounce of strength I’ve faked for years is melting out of me and I can’t stop it. It’s not even graceful. It’s ugly, heaving, snotty, shoulder-shaking grief. The kind that steals your breath and leaves your chest hollow.I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle the sounds, but I don’t think anyone’s listening.Good.Let them have their damn cake-covered disaster. Let them stand there stunned while I fall apart in peace.My cheek still sti

Logan Reynolds Viola breaks down in the hallway.It happens so fast, it’s like watching someone snap from the inside out—quiet, brittle, then crumbling all at once. Her knees hit the carpet like she doesn’t feel the pain, and her hands tremble as they cover her face. I watch her whole body heave, like the sobs are ripping their way out from somewhere deep inside her, places I’ve only ever guessed at.I want to kill him.My fists are still tight, still itching for his throat. I’ve never wanted to end someone the way I want to end Julian right now. But I can’t think like that. Not with her here. Not with her shaking like she’s barely holding on.I kneel beside her. “Vi…” My voice is low.She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t stop crying.I touch her shoulder gently. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”She shakes her head immediately. “No.”Her voice is hoarse. Fragile. I hear the no, but I still hesitate. My gut says she should be looked at—physically, emotionally—but her eyes dart up

Viola McCoy I wake up around midnight. The air feels heavier than it did when I drifted off. I turn my head slowly and see Logan, still curled up on the couch. One arm drapes over his chest. His mouth is slightly parted. I don't move for a long time. Just stare at the ceiling, tracing the faint shadows cast by the moonlight leaking through the curtain. I try to focus on the stillness, the way the room hums with quiet, but my mind won’t stop spinning. I said it. In front of everyone. I said I was divorcing Julian. The words had come out with such force, such fire, like I’d been holding them in for years—which, in a way, I had. And now that they’re out in the open, there’s no putting them back in. There’s no shrinking myself down or pretending anymore. Except I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know who I am without Julian. That’s the rawest part of it all. The ugliest truth I’ve been avoiding. It’s not about the marriage certificate or the house or the last name—it’s about

Viola McCoy I finally pull away from Logan’s hug.His warmth lingers on my skin like sunlight after a long winter. I ctually feel safe. Like nothing’s going to jump out from the shadows and pull me under. I sit down on the edge of the bed. Logan stands there for a moment, searching my face. Then he says gently, “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”I nod.He disappears into the small hotel kitchenette, and I’m left alone with the soft hum of the mini fridge and the dull ache behind my eyes. I lean back against the pillows, pulling the hotel blanket around me. Still, I can’t stop thinking about what I told Amirah.The guilt swells in my chest like a balloon.I told her—between sobs and silence—that when we get back to Chicago, I want to take a few days for myself. To disappear. Just a little. Just long enough to clear my head. No noise. No men. No past. Just me, a new city maybe, a quiet hotel, something warm and still. But I haven’t told Logan yet. I don’t want to. I already know he’ll

Logan Reynolds. I’m pacing.Back and forth across my office, wearing down the Persian rug with every step. My jaw’s tight. My palms are damp. Viola’s phone has been off since last night—last night—and I’ve gone from frustrated to worried to this barely-contained kind of panic that’s starting to settle in my chest like cement.Twenty-four hours.No calls. No texts. No damn read receipts. Just silence.I tried Amirah this morning—twice. Sent messages. Called. Even dropped by her place like some lunatic boyfriend from a bad rom-com. Nobody answered. The lights were off. No sound. No trace. I even checked the mail slot like some detective trying to piece shit together from shadows.It’s not like her. Or her either.So I did what any desperate man would do—I pulled some strings. I asked one of my guys in digital to dig up where Amirah works. He said he’d get back to me in an hour.That was six hours ago.I glance at the clock. 6:57 p.m.I grip the edge of my desk, knuckles whitening.