I kept expecting Logan to bring it up. Kept waiting for him to say something. To tell me he’d made a decision.
Weeks later, I’m still waiting.
And the longer he stays silent, the more I wonder if that silence is the decision.
I’ve spent this entire time working on what Claudia so gently labeled my “single-child syndrome.” The tendency to make single-handed decisions. To assume I know best. To act first and justify later. She didn’t use the word selfish, but she didn’t have to.
Apparently, I’ve gotten so good at not being selfish that I’ve become a pushover.
Exhibit A: the mountain of paperwork currently colonizing my desk.
When Logan stepped back from the surveillance oversight during the separation, I told myself I’d step up. Show initiative.Be responsible. Prove I wasn’t the selfish, impulsive woman who torched our marriage in a moment of anger.
Now the field reports just keep coming.
No one asked if I could handle them. No one checked if it made sense for them to land here. They just… do. And I just… accept them.
Me moving up here may not have been as good an idea as I thought.
Especially not since Arnon came into the picture.
His presence changed the dynamic faster than I expected. Harvard-educated, hyper-efficient, and subtly territorial, he slid into meetings like he’d always belonged there. He never directly undermines me. That would be too obvious.
Instead, he “clarifies.”
He “restructures.”
He “suggests” improvements.
And somehow, more responsibility ends up on my desk every time.
I glance at the stack again and press my lips together.
I still have to call the supplier and rip him a new one for sending us old outdated cameras instead of the new tech I’d ordered.
Mix-up my ass.
Logan
“Are these real?” a woman shouts over the music, running her fingers along the tattoos on my arm.
I give her a polite nod before gently extracting myself from her grip.
“Yep,” I say.
Arnon, has his tongue halfway down her friend’s throat, so I can’t really brush her off too harshly. Leaning back against the cushions, I take in the bodies grinding against each other around us.
It’s barely five and this place is packed. I don’t really get the allure of waiting in line to get in a crowded place where there’s barely any space to breathe.
But Arnon heard the owner is looking for a new security company, so here I am, pretending I belong somewhere I’d rather not be.
With Jess taking over the office front, I’ve had more time to focus on landing bigger clients. Escorting hotshots pays the bills, sure, but permanent contracts like this feel more secure.
And after what happened in 2024, secure sounds pretty damn good.
That year nearly wiped us out.
Hell, it’s how I ended up in that Lenore mess in the first place.
