Chapter 2 - The Mother of All Problems
For the next two days, our apartment felt like a surreal safehouse. We had laid all our cards on the table. Logan admitted the split knuckle from the night we met was from punching a paparazzi photographer who had cornered him. I admitted my late nights "on set" were actually high-stakes editing sessions for a massive studio picture.
We were navigating this bizarre new reality, learning to love the true versions of each other, when reality violently kicked the door in.
Literally.
The heavy knock on our apartment door sounded like a police raid. Logan opened it to reveal my mother, Margaret Pierce, flanked by the one man I despised most in the world: Graham Bell.
My mother swept into the tiny living room, her designer trench coat practically vibrating with aristocratic disgust. She looked at the peeling wallpaper, the thrift-store sofa, and finally, at Logan in his faded jeans.
“So this is the hovel,” Margaret sneered, pulling off her leather gloves. “I hired a private investigator the moment I heard about your little courthouse stunt, Claire. I must say, marrying a blue-collar warehouse grunt is a spectacular way to throw a tantrum.”
“Get out of my house, Mother,” I said, stepping in front of Logan.
Graham chuckled, adjusting his custom Rolex. “Come on, Claire. The joke is over. You’ve proved your point. Let’s get this annulled so you can come back to civilization. I’m still willing to marry you, despite this... embarrassing little detour.”
Logan didn't shout. He didn't puff out his chest. He simply leaned against the doorframe, a dark, dangerous calm settling over him—the kind of calm only a man who moves billions of dollars before breakfast possesses.
“You must be Margaret,” Logan said smoothly. “Claire has told me so little about you.”
My mother bristled. “Do not speak to me, you opportunistic little peasant. You thought you hit the jackpot, didn't you? Found a rebellious heiress to fund your pathetic life. Well, I have frozen her trust fund. You get nothing.”
Logan tilted his head, a terrifying, predatory smile touching his lips. He pulled out his phone and pressed a single button. “Arthur? Bring the car around. And have the legal team draft a restraining order for a Mrs. Margaret Pierce.”
My mother scoffed. “Who are you calling? A taxi?”
Before Logan could answer, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Three men in immaculate black suits stepped into the doorway. The lead man, an older gentleman with a silver earpiece, bowed his head slightly.
“The Maybach is downstairs, Mr. Whitmore. The board is expecting you at the gala in one hour.”
My mother froze. Graham’s smug smile vanished.
May you like
“Mr... Whitmore?” Graham choked out, the color draining from his face.
“Yes,” Logan said, stepping past them to grab his coat. He looked at my mother with eyes as cold as ice. “The 'opportunistic peasant' is going to take his wife to dinner. See yourselves out. And Graham? If you ever speak to my wife again, I will buy your father's real estate firm and turn it into a parking lot.”
