Chapter 34 Logan
LOGAN
The stage lights were low. Just a single warm spotlight, one mic, and an old acoustic guitar. No fog machines. No backup vocals. No drama. Except for the song I was about to sing.
My palms were sweating. Not from nerves. Not exactly. It was the kind of anxiety that lived in your chest when you were about to do something honest.
I sat down on the stool, took a breath, and started playing. It was the song I’d written about Elizabeth, and as soon as I finished writing it, I could tell that it was the best thing I’d ever written. And I wanted—no, needed—to share it with the world.
So that’s where I was on that evening in Los Angeles. It was a surprise that I showed up at the club, but I kept it quiet because I didn’t want a lot of fanfare; I just needed to get the song out.
I didn’t look at the crowd because I didn’t need to. This wasn’t about them.
By the time I finished, the room was dead silent. Then the clapping started. At first, it was slow, then it built, and then the applause was thunderous. I stood, nodded once, and walked off stage like I hadn’t just ripped out my heart and set it to a four-chord progression.
Mick was waiting for me in the wings, grinning. “Congratulations,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “You’re back.”
I gave him a weak smile and kept walking.
The song was online before I got home. One of the audience members had posted it. And it blew up from there.
The next day, Mick tossed me a bottle of water, as if it were champagne. “The Internet is obsessed.”
I groaned. “Kill me.”
Mick smirked. “Can’t. This interview starts in ten minutes.”
A production assistant was already fussing with the mic on my collar, threading the wire under my shirt, and trying not to jab me in the ribs.
I shifted awkwardly in the chair, narrowly avoiding knocking over the lighting stand next to me.
My phone buzzed in my hand—probably another headline or a message I didn’t want to see.
Mick plucked the phone from my fingers before I could glance at the screen. “Hands-free, rock star. Focus.”
That’s how I ended up in front of a camera, sitting across from a pop culture journalist who looked like she’d been waiting her whole career for a headline-worthy meltdown.
She leaned in with a sympathetic smile and a voice as soft as the couch we were sitting on. “So, Logan,” she purred, “was your new song about Sophie?”
“No,” I said flatly.
She blinked, slightly thrown. “Oh… okay. So… someone else, then?”
“Doesn’t matter. She left,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “That’s kind of her thing—walking away.”
I hadn’t planned to talk about Elizabeth. Not like that. But the moment her name was even hinted at, it was as if the dam broke, and everything poured out: hurt, resentment, betrayal.
Because I was still so angry. I was angry at her for not choosing me. For not stopping the wedding. For watching me walk toward a future without her and doing nothing.
So yeah, I said those things because I wanted her to hear them. I wanted her to feel what I’d felt.
However, it didn’t make me feel better afterward. If anything, it made me feel worse.
I walked into a meeting with Mick after the interview. He handed me my phone. I looked down to see if I had any messages, but the phone was out of battery.
Mick popped a protein bar in his mouth. “Your Spotify plays are up six thousand percent,” he said around a mouthful. “Also, just FYI, we’ve received about seventeen boxes of fan mail since the song went live. Heartbreak is a good look for you.”
I groaned.
He flopped onto the couch across from me, scrolling through his phone. “Oh, and did you know Elizabeth quit her job?”
My head snapped up. “What?”
He nodded, as if it were just a side note. “Yup. Left that ice-cold firm. Moved to New Orleans. Started her own PR company. Apparently, she’s already pulling in clients.”
I stared at him, the noise around me suddenly very far away.
“Big clients,” Mick said. “Purpose-driven nonprofits, local food startups, even arts festivals. She only works with clients who do good. No generic corporate fluff.”
“So she’s not with Vanessa’s firm anymore, and she’s choosy about her clients?”
“Exactly. She’s earning a reputation as one of NOLA’s go-to boutique firms.” He looked up from his phone and studied my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t. Because I’d gone on national television and criticized a woman who had finally, finally stopped letting fear run her life. I said there was no future for us, but now she was building something real, something new. And all I’d done was weaponize the worst version of her.
The fans could cheer. The numbers could climb. But none of it felt like a win.