I don’t even know what to say to that.
Before she leaves, she adds, “And for the record—the wine I spilled was actually an accident. I was furious with myself. If I’m going to pretend to be anything,clumsyisn’t it.” She shudders. And then she’s gone.
Chapter 27: Rose
“You have to come out. I’m only here for one night, and you’re my plus one.”
It’s been almost six weeks since I got back to the city. I can breathe again, mostly—but Logan is still the first thing I think of every morning. I still pull up his messages when I feel lost. But I’m more determined than ever to prove him and my dad wrong, that my career is not something to be so easily tossed aside.
Which means I’ve actually been busy. Building a clientele, figuring out what comes next. I’m exhausted.
“East, I’m tired. Can’t we just stay in and watch that island show?” I whine, rolling to the edge of the bed so my head hangs upside down.
“I knew you liked it!” He laughs, then disappears, returning a minute later with a dress in hand.
“That’s not really your color.”
“It’s for you, dumbass. Now you can’t say no.”
I sit up, my head swimming. “Will it fit?”
His smile dims. “Yes, of course it will.”
“Why did you buy me a dress?”
He pauses. Then, “Because I knew you’d say no and then claim you had nothing to wear. Put it on. Make yourselfpresentable. You know, maybe brush your hair while you’re at it. You have twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes? To get ready for a gala?”
“You always brag about being low maintenance,” he calls out as he leaves. I’m annoyed. And the dress is red—the same red as the one Maria lent me, the one that made Logan lose his mind.
I pull it on. It fits perfectly: fitted through the top, long-sleeved, wide boat neckline, snug at the waist, then a gentle flare all the way to the floor. Elegant. It’s freakin’ beautiful.
“What is this even for?” I ask, putting on earrings as I stroll out of my bedroom. He glances over, approving, and grabs his keys. “It’s for the team. Coach made it mandatory.”
“That’s weird. He never makes you do the party thing during season.”
Easton just hums noncommittally as the elevator descends. He’s already ordered a car, which waits for us when we step outside. When it pulls up in front of the Village Art House—an upscale, newly renovated museum that hosts events like this—the vehicle idles a short distance away. From here I can see a red carpet and the edge of a sign I can’t quite read, plus a crowd milling about. Easton fishes his phone out of his pocket.
“What are we waiting for?” I ask.
“Just want you to watch something real quick.”
I frown as he opens his social feed and taps a video. Logan’s face fills the screen. My breath catches at the sight of him after so long—I almost want to slap the phone away—but the moment he speaks, any anger I feel vanishes.
The clip isn’t on his personal account. I’ll admit I’ve stalked him over the years—he rarely posts anything personal, but his profile isn’t private. This video, however, is hosted by some health organization.
“My name is Logan Wells. I am a cardiothoracic surgeon, and my work primarily involves treating adult heart conditions. I’veknown since I was a child what I wanted to be when I grew up. It helped that my father carved the path, but I happily followed in his footsteps. I graduated top of my class—though book smarts alone don’t make a great surgeon. Empathy and sound judgment are just as crucial, and I always believed I had both. Until recently.
“A few months ago, I was presented with a letter of misconduct. It targeted a nutritionist and herbal wellness counselor who’d exceeded her scope by attempting to undertake a substantial practice. The letter claimed her proposals were a danger to public health—that she was unqualified, untested, guilty of gross malpractice—and it moved to pull funding by alerting current and potential investors to the supposed risks.”
Logan clears his throat. He’s wearing a crisp lab coat, his expression flat and rehearsed. His dark hair is slightly longer now, but he looks clean-shaven, showing off the hard lines of his jaw. His sculpted features and perfect lips reopen the wound I thought was healing. My stomach churns uncomfortably as he recounts everything I went through in such clear, concise, practiced terms.
Then something shifts. His face softens, almost imperceptibly. He presses his lips together, like he’s gathering himself, a faint tick at his jaw.
“What a decent person would have done was their research—just as I did countless times in school and even more so throughout my career. I would have looked into this person, the project, the proposal. I would have met her and decided for myself. Had I done that, I never would have signed that letter. Instead, I would have invested my time, my money, and my energy. I would have invested myself. Because it wasn’t a bad plan, it wasn’t dangerous—it was brilliant, designed to help our community, to aid people in need. The letter of conduct was written maliciously by someone nursing a personal vendetta,and I was too self-important—too preoccupied with my busy schedule—to dig deeper. For that, I played a part not only in ruining the business but also in destroying the reputation and hopes of this brilliant young woman whose only dream was to help others.”
Logan’s eyes turn sincere now. Pleading. It’s the same look he had the last time I saw him. I keep replaying it: brows drawn, sadness settling over him, his heartbreak unfolding in real time, his heart beating with mine—slowing in hurt, speeding in fear.
