16. Truth
SIXTEEN
TRUTH
Logan
“Are you nervous?”
I look down at my fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel. Bella’s not wrong. We’re parked outside her mother’s house now, and I’m definitely uncomfortable. Not the kind of fear I felt in that hospital corridor twenty-eight years ago, but something different. Something new.
“When was the last time you were this nervous?” she asks.
“The day I walked Audrey down the aisle.” I try to smile. “At least then, I only had to give her away. Now I have to explain to your mother how I’m both the boss who drove her daughter away and the man who got her pregnant.”
“After lying about being her boyfriend for months.”
“Not helping.”
She reaches over and laces her fingers through mine. “Mom’s a nurse. She’s seen worse.”
“Worse than a CEO who ran away when his fake girlfriend got pregnant?”
“Much worse.” She squeezes my hand. “Ready?”
I’m not. But I follow her up the path, anyway.
Julia Levine has her daughter’s eyes and a nurse’s way of seeing straight through bullshit. She takes one look at us on her porch and says, “Well, this should be interesting.”
The living room is cozy and filled with family photos. I spot Bella in her graduation cap and another photo of her with a man who must be her father. Their smiles match.
“So,” Julia sits in her armchair like it’s a throne. “Which version am I getting? The boss story or the boyfriend story?”
“Both,” Bella says. “They’re the same story.”
I watch Julia process this, her expression shifting from confusion to understanding to something sharper.
“Start from the beginning,” she says. “And don’t leave anything out.”
We tell her about the wedding night that started it all, the fake relationship with the board, and the real feelings that grew despite our best efforts. When we get to the part about me running, Julia’s eyes narrow.
“Your mother,” she says suddenly. “How did she die?”
The question catches me off guard. Bella starts to intervene, but Julia holds up a hand.
“I’ve been a labor and delivery nurse for thirty years,” she continues. “I’ve seen that look before. In fathers who’ve lost their wives in childbirth.”
“She died having my sister.”
Julia nods like I’ve confirmed something. “And you’ve been carrying that fear ever since.”
“Mom,” Bella warns, but Julia isn’t finished.
“What was her name?”
“Elizabeth.” My voice catches. “But everyone called her Beth.”
Julia’s eyes are soft. “You were seven?”
I nod.
“And you raised your sister?”
Another nod.
She stands, walks to a cabinet, and pulls out a photo album. “My husband, Robert, died twelve years ago. Heart attack.” She shows me a picture—Bella and her father at what looks like a science fair. “She stopped entering competitions after that. Said it wasn’t the same without him there to help build the projects.”
“Mom—” Bella starts.
“Let me finish.” Julia turns to me. “Grief changes us. Makes us run sometimes. Hide. But what matters is coming back. You came back.”
“I did.” I look at Bella. “I will. Every time.”
“Good.” Julia closes the album. “Because if you ever hurt my daughter again, I know exactly which drugs leave no trace in an autopsy.”
“Mom!”
“What? It’s a valid threat.” But she’s smiling. “Now, who’s hungry? I’m guessing my grandchild would like some of my chocolate chip pancakes.”
Later, after more food than I thought possible and adorable childhood stories that make Bella blush, we’re back in my car. The sun’s setting over Cedar Grove, painting everything gold.
“That went better than expected,” Bella says.
“Your mother threatened to murder me.”
“Exactly. She likes you.”
I laugh, then grow serious. “I’ve been thinking about therapy. Since Audrey mentioned it.”
She turns to face me. “Yeah?”
“I need help. To deal with... everything.” The words come easier than I expected. “Would you... would you come with me? Sometimes, at least?”
“Of course.” She takes my hand. “But Logan? I meant what I wrote in my resignation letter.”
“I know.” Audrey has already filled me in about her wanting to resign, and I get why. She needs to build something of her own, away from my shadow. “You’re too talented to be an assistant, anyway.”
“And I’m moving back to my apartment.”
This one’s harder to accept. “You don’t have to?—”
“I do. We need to do this right. We need to build something real, not born from convenience or pretense.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right.
“Besides,” she adds with a small smile, “you’ll have to work harder to see me now. Actually, earn it.”
“I’ll earn it every day.”
The drive back to Manhattan is quiet. At her apartment, I help her unpack the basics—enough for tonight. We’ll get the rest tomorrow.
“Stay,” she says when I turn to leave. “Just to sleep, of course. I’m not ready for you to go yet.”
In her bed, with her head on my chest, she asks, “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” I admit. “But not of the same things anymore.”
“What are you scared of?”
“Not being enough. Not healing fast enough. Messing this up again.”
She props herself up to look at me. “That’s normal, you know. Being scared of that stuff.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. And Logan?” Her hand finds mine in the dark. “I’m scared too. Of being a mom. Of starting my own business. Of letting myself trust that what we have is real.”
“It’s real.” I pull her closer. “Realer than anything I’ve ever known.”
“Good.” She settles back against me. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even when you’re being an impossible CEO with control issues.”
“Even when you’re being a stubborn perfectionist who stress-bakes at midnight?”
“Especially then.”
* * *
Three weeks after Bella moved back to her apartment, I’m still adjusting to the silence—to coming home to an empty penthouse. We’re doing this right—dating properly, learning each other without pretense.
“You’re brooding again,” Audrey says, perched on my office couch. “Stop it.”
“I don’t brood.”
“Please. You’ve been staring at the same contract for twenty minutes.” She rubs her slightly rounded belly. “Speaking of which, how’s therapy?”
“Good.” And it is. Three sessions in, I’m starting to understand things I’ve carried for twenty-eight years. “Bella comes to the Friday ones.”
“And?”
“And it helps. Having her there.” I sign the contract without reading it.
“Look at you, talking about feelings.” She grins. “Almost like an adult.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“Shouldn’t you be planning your big romantic gesture?”
I glance at my phone. Everything’s set for tonight.
“He’s nervous,” Audrey stage-whispers to her belly. “Your uncle Logan’s actually nervous.”
“Don’t you have a husband to torment?”
“He’s in surgery.” She stands, gathering her things. “Besides, this is more fun. Text me how it goes?”
After she leaves, I check the arrangements one final time. Bella thinks it’s a casual date. She doesn’t know I’ve been planning this for days.
My phone buzzes with a text from her.
Finishing up office space hunt. Still on for tonight?
I smile and text back.
Wouldn’t miss it.
The chef arrives at six, transforming my kitchen into something that smells like heaven. By seven, everything’s perfect. Candles are lit. Wine—sparkling juice for her—is chilling. The dessert plate is waiting in the kitchen with its message written in chocolate.
The elevator dings at seven-thirty.
Bella steps out looking devastatingly gorgeous in a deep blue dress. “Something smells amazing.”
“You look amazing.”
“And you look absolutely handsome.” She smiles as I help her out of her coat. “What’s the occasion?”
“Can’t I spoil my...” I pause. We haven’t defined what we are yet. That’s tonight’s mission.
Her eyes sparkle. “Your what?”
“Let’s eat first.”
Dinner is perfect. She tells me about the different office buildings she’s found so far for her marketing agency, her eyes bright with excitement. I tell her about therapy, about finally understanding why I’ve always needed control.
“I’m proud of you,” she says softly. “For doing the work.”
“It’s easier with you there.”
The chef appears to clear our plates. “Dessert?”
Bella starts to answer, but I cut in. “Give us a moment?”
Once we’re alone, I take her hand. “Dance with me?”
“There’s no music.”
I pull out my phone and tap the screen. Soft sounds fill the room—the same song that played at Audrey’s wedding when I first found Bella on that terrace.
“You remember,” she whispers.
“I remember everything.” I draw her close. “How beautiful you looked. How much I wanted to kiss you.”
The chef returns with the dessert plate. Bella turns to look, then freezes.
Written in chocolate: Will you be mine? For real this time?
“Logan...”
“These past months,” I start, my voice rough, “everything was supposed to be pretend. But you made me feel real. Made me want to be better. Made me brave enough to face my fears.” I take her hands. “I want this—us—to be official. No contracts, no arrangements. Just us.”
Tears shine in her eyes. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
“I’m asking you to be everything. My girlfriend. My future. My reality.”
She pulls me down and kisses me with everything she has. When we break apart, she whispers, “Yes.”
The kiss starts slow this time, deep and searching. Her hands slide into my hair as mine find her waist, pulling her closer. The music plays on, forgotten, as we lose ourselves in each other.
“The chef,” she murmurs against my lips as our energy turns sexual.
“He’s gone.” I trail kisses down her neck.
She laughs, then gasps as I find that spot below her ear. “Bed?”
“Too far.” I lift her onto the dining table, careful of her flat belly.
Her dress rides up as she wraps her legs around me. “I’ve missed this,” she breathes. “Missed you.”
“Every night,” I unzip her dress slowly, savoring each inch of exposed skin, “I kept thinking about you in that little apartment.”
“You could have visited.” She works on my shirt buttons.
“I wanted to do this right.” My hands trace her curves, memorizing changes only I would notice. “Wanted to earn you.”
“You have me.” She arches as I kiss down her throat. “Always had me.”
Her skin is impossibly soft and warm beneath my palms as I trace the curve of her waist. My lips follow a slow, deliberate path down her neck, tasting the faint hint of her perfume and the slight saltiness of her skin.
I pause at the hollow of her throat, pressing a kiss there, feeling her pulse race against my lips.
Her breathing grows shallow as I continue lower, my hands pushing the fabric of her dress aside to reveal more of her. The way she shivers under my fingertips, the way her nails dig into my shoulders, spurs me on.
I let my tongue flick across the sensitive skin of her chest, drawing a soft moan from her lips. My name falls from her in a whisper, her voice wrapping around the syllables, making them sound like a plea.
I take my time with her, tasting, teasing, and exploring every curve as her body trembles beneath me. Her thighs tighten around me as I shift lower, my hands sliding up her sides.
She gasps when my lips find a particularly sensitive spot, her back arching, her body pressing closer to mine as though she can’t get enough.
Every inch of her is mine to claim, and I do so with an intensity that makes her cry out again, her voice breathless and broken in a way that it has never been, sending heat rushing through me.
The way she moves against me, the way her body responds with perfect, raw honesty, leaves no doubt—she’s mine, as much as I am hers.
After, we lay in bed with her head on my chest.
“We forgot dessert,” she mumbles sleepily.
“I didn’t.” I kiss her temple. “You were dessert.”