Chapter 4
LOGAN
Mick got me back here with a single sentence: “Work with her, or I’m done managing you.”
My blood ran cold.
Mick had been with me from the start. He was the only person in this industry I trusted. He’d looked out for me when no one else did. When even my father never did.
And now, he was threatening to walk away.
So eighteen hours later, there I was, slouched in a chair at that same coffee shop, barely keeping my irritation in check.
At the same time, Elizabeth Bailey—the most infuriating person I’d ever met—stood at the head of the room, flipping through her paperwork like she was unveiling a cure for cancer.
The woman had spreadsheets. So many spreadsheets. Color-coded, alphabetized, and packed into folders.
“Here are the potential candidates for the relationship,” she said, her tone as steady as a metronome.
“Candidates?” I interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
She didn’t look at me, just slid a stack of glossy headshots across the table.
“For your image-enhancement alliance—”
“My what?”
She sighed, annoyed. “Your fake relationship, Logan. I’ve already spoken with their representatives. These are women with clean reputations, broad appeal, and good chemistry with your brand.”
I picked up the stack, flipping through the headshots. They were all polished, perfect, with the kind of fake smiles you see on magazine covers. Starlets, influencers, and even an Olympic gold medalist. Each photo had notes attached: “Pros” and “Cons.”
I glanced at the first sheet. The woman in the picture was blonde, probably about twenty-five, with teeth so white they could blind someone.
Pros: Respected actress, wholesome public image, ties to several charitable organizations.
Cons: Dated another rock star last year; limited social media presence.
I handed the sheet to Mick, who was sitting next to me. “Dated a rock star last year? She’s got experience with your kind, Logan. I see why that’s listed as a ‘con.’”
I groaned. “How do I make this decision?”
Elizabeth didn’t flinch. “We have metrics, Logan. Chemistry ratings. Audience-alignment percentages…”
The following photograph was of a lovely brunette with long, wavy hair. Gorgeous, but gave me kindergarten-teacher vibes. I handed the next headshot to Mick. He held it up, looking amused. “Ooh, reality-show veteran. Pros: ‘viral potential.’ Cons: also ‘viral potential.’” He laughed.
Elizabeth didn’t blink. “She’s been on The Bachelor. I would move to the next candidate.”
Next headshot: a brunette with intense eyes and a note: “known for charity work, faint social conscience.” I snorted.
“Faint social conscience?” Mick echoed. “Does that mean she saves kittens… once a year?”
I kept flipping until I caught something familiar. I froze.
“Oh no.” Elizabeth lunged for the sheet. “That’s not for your eyes.”
I grabbed the page before she could stop me.
Logan Richards – Pros: Charismatic, large fanbase, substantial streaming numbers, musical genius from a famous family.
Logan Richards – Cons: Known for erratic behavior, past scandals, challenging to work with, self-sabotaging, and arrogant. Craves attention but hates accountability. Unable to sustain professional relationships. Doesn’t seem to care about his career or reputation. Bottom line: a PR nightmare.
My jaw tightened. So, my cons outweighed my pros.
By quite a bit.
“Difficult to work with?” I repeated, holding up the paper.
Elizabeth finally looked at me, her gaze cool and unflinching. “Am I wrong?”
I tossed the paper onto the table, letting it slide across the surface. “You think pairing me up with some Barbie doll is going to fix everything, make the world forget every headline about me?”
She straightened her spine. “I think it’s a start. If you want to regain control of your career, you need to start shaping the narrative. And this is how we do it. Don’t you care about your family’s legacy?”
My family’s legacy.
The words hit like a punch to the gut. My chair scraped against the floor as I shot to my feet before I even realized what I was doing. “Control the narrative?” My voice came out sharp, bitter. “You sound like him.”
“Logan,” Mick said, warningly.
Elizabeth blinked, tilting her head slightly. “I sound like him? I… I don’t know what that means.”
Of course, she didn’t. No one ever did.
No one understood what it was like to be Ryder Richards’ son.
To have your last name mean something before you even knew who you were.
To have the world expect you to be brilliant, wild, magnetic, and to punish you when you weren’t.
To have your father be a legend to everyone but you.
The anger bubbled up before I could stop it.
“This whole idea is ridiculous. You want to put me in a box, slap a label on me, and sell me like I’m some PR product.
Newsflash, sweetheart: I’m not for sale. ”
She flinched, just slightly, but enough that I caught it. “You don’t want to do this? Fine. Go ahead and keep making headlines for all the wrong reasons. See how long your label sticks around.”
The silence stretched, tense and uncomfortable, until Mick cleared his throat.
“Logan,” he said again, his tone icy.
I didn’t answer. I grabbed the stack of headshots and stalked out of the room, my frustration boiling over. Outside, the heat wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering over Mick’s number.
I’d tell him I wasn’t doing this, that I didn’t need him. That he could go ahead and walk away.
But I didn’t call. Because I knew the second I heard his voice, I’d cave.
He meant it. He was done. And without him? Without Mick?
I was alone.
My stomach twisted. I exhaled sharply, turned on my heel, and marched back inside. Elizabeth and Mick didn’t look surprised when I walked in. I dropped into the chair, rolling my shoulders like this wasn’t a surrender.
“Fine,” I said flatly. “Let’s pick my girlfriend.”