Chapter 27
After getting off the plane, I waste no time hailing a cab, rattling off the address of the party venue with a shaky breath.
My hand trembles as I slide into the backseat, the leather squeaking beneath my simple cotton dress—a far cry from the designer gowns I’ll undoubtedly face tonight.
The dress had seemed adequate hanging in my closet in Maplewood Springs.
Now, with L.A.’s glitter and glamour looming ahead, it feels as out of place as I do.
The driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “Big night at Avalon, huh?”
“Something like that.” My smile wobbles at the edges, as uncertain as my plan.
I fidget with my purse—the only thing I brought with me. No luggage, no hotel reservation. After what I’m about to do, I’ll likely be on the red-eye back to Arkansas, watching the city lights shrink beneath me.
My phone lights up with a text from Logan. I’d messaged him yesterday that I was coming.
The explosion of celebratory emojis tells me he’s beyond thrilled that I’m coming. He has no idea what I’m planning to do. The only way to undo a lie is to tell the truth. If anyone is going to reveal our fake relationship, it should be me.
Tapping my foot against the floor mat, I scroll through my news feed.
Every entertainment outlet buzzes with tonight’s announcement party.
Photos of Logan and Victoria from earlier today flash across my screen—him in that leather jacket, her in the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.
For all her faults, she sure has a sense of fashion so far beyond mine I might as well be wearing one of Chrissy’s hoodies.
“Avalon Hollywood,” the cabbie announces as we come to a halt.
The venue glows like a beacon, drawing the beautiful people of L.A. to its doors. A red carpet stretches from the curb, throbbing with photographers and shouting reporters. Security guards with earpieces stand sentry at velvet ropes.
Suddenly, I do not want to get out of this cab.
“You sure this is your stop?” The driver’s skepticism makes me question my entire plan. But I know there’s no turning back.
“Yes.” I swipe my card, take a deep breath, and step out into the warm California evening, firing off a quick text to Logan that I’ve arrived.
Within seconds, he comes out and walks toward me, his face lighting up with genuine joy that makes me weak in the knees. He looks devastatingly handsome in that leather jacket and ripped jeans, his hair artfully mussed, fringes brushed diagonally to cover half his forehead.
In seven long strides he reaches me and delivers a hug so intimate and warm I nearly crumble. His arms envelop me completely, his chin resting atop my head. He smells so good I could hold on to him forever, like a koala bear clinging to a tree.
“I’m so glad you decided to come.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
Every pair of eyes surrounding the carpet stares at us as whispers ripple through the crowd.
“Is that her?” someone says.
“The teacher.” I can’t see whose talking with cameras constantly flashing in my face.
I clutch my purse strap tighter, anchoring myself to reality.
I should explain everything to him now. “Logan, I—”
“It’s time to make our relationship known to the world,” he interrupts, grasping my hand and tugging me toward the entrance. “I want everyone to see us.”
Panic runs through my veins like a wild river as Logan pulls me past curious reporters and glamorous guests who turn to track our progress, many lifting phones to snap photos.
“Logan, wait—”
But he doesn’t hear me over the thrum of music spilling from the open doors. His hand is warm and firm around mine, guiding me into another world.
Inside, Avalon Hollywood transforms into something from a fever dream.
Chandeliers drip crystal light onto a sea of beautiful people.
Rich crimson drapes frame the walls. DJ Khaled spins on the raised stage, and the bass hits like a physical thing, driving vibrations through the floor and up into my bones.
Camera flashes pop around us like summer lightning, and I find myself shrinking into Logan’s side. His arm circles my waist protectively, and given where we are, I don’t mind at all. I hope he doesn’t let go.
“I need to talk to you,” I attempt again, my voice drowning in the beat drop.
“We will,” Logan promises, his lips brushing my ear. “Just let me introduce you to a few people first.”
Logan’s hand settles at my lower back, and he guides me through the crowd expertly.
People press in on both sides. Lights pulse.
The bass rolls through my ribs. I’m still trying to arrange my thoughts into something usable, still trying to figure out how to tell him about Victoria’s diabolical plan, when we stop and I look up.
And my brain ceases to function.
“Maisie,” Logan says, grinning like he’s been waiting for this, “I want you to meet someone. This is Morgan Wallen.”
My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Morgan. Wallen. Standing right in front of me. The same Morgan Wallen whose song “Whiskey Glasses” helped me survive those first brutal weeks after catching Andy with Lindsey.
He extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Maisie.”
I take his hand on autopilot. His grip is firm, his smile easy, like he introduces himself to stunned strangers for a living. I can only stare, wide-eyed and mute, like a unicorn has wandered into a nightclub and everyone else is pretending that’s normal.
“She’s usually more talkative,” Logan says, laughing as he gives my waist a quick squeeze. “Big fan, I take it?”
I manage a jerky nod, my cheeks heating up.
Morgan’s mouth quirks. “You were right” he says, tapping Logan’s arm. “She is cute.”
Heat rushes up my neck and into my face so fast I almost sway. I can’t believe my ears. Logan has been talking about me to Morgan Wallen. Like I’m a person worth mentioning.
“Told you,” Logan says with unmistakable pride. “She’s a songwriter too. Writes these amazing kids’ songs for her first graders.”
“That right?” Morgan lifts an eyebrow, interest sharpening his expression. “Maybe we should collaborate sometime.”
A sound escapes me, strangled and helpless, halfway between a laugh and a hiccup. It’s the first noise I’ve made since my brain short-circuited, and it’s the worst possible one.
“Catch you later,” Logan says to Morgan as he takes me to meet another one of his celebrity friends.
Ahead of us I catch a glimpse of Tom Holland. No way. Is he going to introduce us next? I’m so not ready for this. I should have worn a better dress.
I notice Victoria standing next to Tom and stop immediately.
“What’s wrong?” Logan asks.
“I need to tell you something.”
Before I can utter another word, the witch herself materializes before us.
Her sleek gown clings to her stunning figure like wet silk, its metallic sheen catching light with every sway of her hips. Her mouth—painted deep red—drops open when she sees Logan’s arm around me but quickly twists into a snarl.
“You’d humiliate me like this?” she snaps at Logan. Her fingers curl into claws at her sides, and I half expect her to scratch my face at any moment.
Logan’s grip on my waist tightens, though his expression remains calm. “I tried to tell you a thousand times. We like each other.”
Those four words—simple, earnest, and full of quiet conviction—send my heart soaring despite everything.
Victoria scoffs, her jaw clenching so tightly I worry for her expensive veneers. “You’re both toast,” she promises, each word dripping with venom as she turns on her silver stiletto heel.
Nausea rises to my throat like the tide. I know exactly what she’s capable of. The contract she stole is probably in her clutch right now, ready to be leaked to the world.
I cup Logan’s face between my trembling hands. His bewildered gaze searches mine.
“You told me once to trust you,” I say. “Now I’m asking you to trust me.”
His brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
I glance left. Victoria’s already striding toward the DJ stage, motioning for him to kill the music. I’m out of time. It’s now or never.
“Please forgive me,” I tell Logan, then turn and run toward the stage.
I can’t let Victoria beat me to it. If she reveals what we’ve been up to, Logan’s career will take a hit.
I make my way through the crowd, bumping shoulders and stepping on toes in my desperate race.
Victoria reaches the steps just as I do, and for one suspended moment, we lock eyes—hers narrowed and glaring, mine wide with determination.
I lunge forward, snatching the microphone from DJ Khaled’s startled hands. My palms are slick with sweat as I face the sea of confused beautiful faces.
“Umm . . . can I have your attention, please?” My voice wavers over the speakers.
The music cuts abruptly. Conversations die. Champagne glasses stop clinking. I start hyperventilating as hundreds of stares shoot my way. My knees shake uncontrollably, but I can’t fall apart, not yet. I have to say what I came here to say, and then I will find a cave to hide in and never come out.
Victoria stands frozen at the foot of the stage, her expression oscillating between fury and fascination.
I spot Logan in the crowd, concern etched into the lines of his forehead as he pushes toward the stage.
“I need to tell you the truth,” I say, my knuckles white around the microphone. “Two months ago, I . . .” God, please help me through this moment. “I convinced Logan to pretend to be my boyfriend.”
A wave of gasps ripples through the room.
“It was selfish.” My voice cracks on the word. “I wanted to get back at someone who hurt me, and—” I swallow hard against the lump in my throat”—I blackmailed Logan to help me.”
Tears blur the flashing lights into kaleidoscope stars, but I push through.
“I realize how wrong it was. It was petty and childish, and Logan deserves better than that. He’s kind, he’s talented, and he never asked to get dragged into my mess.
I forced his hand . . . out of spite . . . out of jealousy.”
I find his eyes in the crowd now, those impossibly blue eyes that have looked at me with laughter, with heat, with something I was too afraid to name.
“I’m so sorry.”
I drop the microphone—it hits the stage with feedback that ricochets through the stunned silence—and run down the steps, heading for the exit. The crowd parts automatically, too shocked to even whisper.
Logan catches me before I can slip out, his fingers gentle but firm around my arm. “Why, Maisie? Why would you do that?”
I wipe furiously at my cheeks, but the tears keep coming. “It was the right thing to do,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “You’re free now to do as you please.”
He stares at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve, hurt and confusion warring in his expression.
The reporters recover first, swarming around us like hungry piranhas, shouting questions and thrusting cameras in our faces. The flashes are blinding, disorienting, capturing my mortification from every conceivable angle.
I slip my arm from his grasp, my heart breaking all over again. “Please, don’t follow me.”