Chapter Fifteen
Jess
“Mackie,” I call when I see her passing my office.
She pokes her head in. “Yes, Mrs. West?” she says with a little smirk.
I narrow my eyes at her, she’s lucky she’s good at her job.
I point to the folder sitting on my desk. “Can you have these sent downstairs?”
Hesitantly, she steps inside and picks it up. “I’ll send them right away.”
She lingers by the door instead of leaving.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just… uh…” She shifts her weight. “Mr. West and Arnon left for the day.”
“Left?” I repeat. “It’s three-thirty.”
I grab my phone, scrolling for a message in case I missed something.
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. I have messages. Just none from Logan or his pesky new assistant. Sorry, manager.
“When did they leave?” I ask.
Mackie glances over her shoulder, then quietly closes my office door.
“Mr. West brought the kids to daycare,” she says, lowering her voice, “then left with Arnon. Ron saw them on his coffee run.”
I clench my jaw.
“And why wasn’t I told?”
She opens her mouth, then pauses.
“I’m not yelling,” I say quickly.
For some reason, ever since I took over surveillance, I’ve gotten the reputation of being a yeller. Which is ridiculous. I barely yell.
Only when it’s appropriate.
Mackie’s eyebrows lift anyway.
“I’m sorry,” I add with a sigh. “It’s not your job to let me know when my husband decides to play hooky.”
I unlock my phone and open our message thread.
Where are you???
An automated reply pops up almost instantly:
The person you are trying to reach is unavailable and will get back to you as soon as possible.
Great.
I toss the phone onto my desk and watch it land on the mountain of paperwork I still have to get through.
Mackie sits down in the chair across from me.
“Are you okay?”
I look at her concerned face and wonder when exactly our relationship shifted from mentorship to… this.
Probably somewhere in the middle of all those late nights we’ve spent working overtime together.
I used to be good at keeping professional boundaries.
But Simone still hasn’t forgiven me, and Claudia refuses to tell me anything personal about herself, so that relationship is pretty one-sided.
Which leaves me with Mackie.
Lucky her.
“I’m tired,” I answer her honestly.
Mackie lets out a breath and slumps back in the chair. “Tell me about it,” she says. “I can barely keep my dog alive with all the overtime we’ve been pulling. And you’ve got toddlers at home.”
I give her a small, grateful smile.
“I’d say things will quiet down once we settle in,” I reply, “but let’s be honest, this is our life now.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again.
“What?” I ask.
Uncertainly, she says, “I don’t understand why we’re in charge of reports from the field team. Shouldn’t that be handled downstairs?”
I rub the back of my neck, already knowing how stupid this sounds. “I told them I’d take over while Logan was in San Diego for his mom’s birthday,” I explain. “Now they just keep sending them up here because technically they fall under surveillance review.”
She scowls, folding her arms. “I bet that was that Harvard asshole’s idea.”
I laugh. “I doubt he went to Harvard.”
She nods. “Right. No way he’d be here if that were true?”
I give her a look.
She holds up a hand. “Hey, I love working here, but this place has always felt more like home for community college and GED types. Not pompous Harvard dicks.”
“I didn’t go to community college,” I point out, carefully ignoring the rest of her comment.
“And that’s why you’re the boss,” she says, pushing to her feet.
“Hey, Mackie,” I call before she can leave.
She turns back. “Yeah?”
“You know you can bring Bruno to the office if you want,” I tell her. “I’d bring Ty and Bell, but they can never settle here.”
Her face softens. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
I give her a small smile as she leaves.
The second the door clicks shut, I drop my gaze back to the mountain of paperwork still waiting for me.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m so tired.”
I didn’t think there’d ever come a time in my life when I’d hate reading.
But I do.
Right now, I really, really do.
Maybe I can hire someone just to handle this part. Someone whose entire job is to sit here and verify reports so I don’t have to feel like my brain is melting every afternoon.
Because at this point it doesn’t even feel like real work.
It feels like I’m fixing typos and formatting issues instead of actually running a department.
I flip open the next file and groan.
Missing timestamps. Incomplete incident notes. Three different spellings of the same client’s name.
Whoever wrote this clearly did it with their eyes closed.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.
How did Logan do all of this and still have the energy to function at home?
No wonder he was exhausted all the time.
My phone buzzes on the desk and my heart jumps before I can stop it.
For one stupid second I think it might be him.
It isn’t.
Just another email notification.
I let out a slow breath and force myself to focus again.
“Okay,” I whisper to the empty office, staring at the glowing numbers on my screen. “One more hour. Then you can go home.”
And worry about your husband.
Technically, we’re well past the “structured separation” timeline. Sixty days came and went without ceremony. No countdown. No conversation. No dramatic check-in.
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.
The woman in front of me suddenly yells, “I’m gonna dance!” and disappears into the crowd without waiting for a response.
I watch her go, then glance around again, wondering when we’re actually supposed to meet this owner.
He’s sure taking his sweet time.
I check my watch.
I’m supposed to be at Darren’s later to help Simone’s sister drag a crib up the stairs of their new house. Her husband is some star surgeon from L.A., which apparently means he “can’t risk his million-dollar hands.”
Whatever. He’s kind of a jackass anyway.
But Bronwyn is great. That’s why I agreed in the first place.
Huffing, I glance back at Arnon and the chick currently glued to his lap. If he wasn’t practically humping her in public, I’d tell him I’m leaving.
Getting off the couch, I dodge sweaty bodies and weave my way toward the bar.
“Water, please,” I say.
Ten dollars later, I’m holding a bottle that probably cost fifty cents to make.
Figures.
I drain it in a few gulps and pull out my phone to text Arnon when a voice catches my attention.
“Hi.”
I look up.
A woman steps closer, leaning casually against the column I’d been half-hiding behind.
She’s pretty, really pretty. Korean, I think. Long black hair, sharp features, confident smile.
Younger than me, but not by much.
“Hey,” I say politely.
She studies me for a second, eyes flicking over my face like she’s deciding something.
I clear my throat and raise my left hand, showing her the ring I’m still wearing.
“I’m Hayao,” she says. Then, with a small smirk, “The owner.”
I falter. “Sorry, I… uh…”
“You thought it was a man?” she asks, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Something like that,” I admit.
“I’ll give you this one,” she says, raising her hand.
I stare at it for a beat before finally taking it.
“Logan West,” I say.
“I know,” she replies, letting out a soft, throaty chuckle.
“Right,” I mutter. “Uh…do you want something to drink?” I ask, gesturing toward the bar.
She shakes her head with a small smile. “I’m good.”
Then she motions for me to follow her.
I do, feeling strangely nervous as I trail behind her down a narrow hallway.
She opens a door labeled Office and steps inside. The music from the club fades instantly, replaced by quiet.
Hayao takes a seat behind her desk and gestures for me to sit across from her.
“So,” she says, crossing her hands over her stomach, “give me your pitch.”
I lean back in the chair. “Well, it’s less of a pitch and more a demonstration of competence.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
“If we were in charge of your security,” I continue, “this hallway sure as hell wouldn’t have been unguarded. And you-” I nod toward her “-would not be alone back here with me without some kind of verification.”
She smiles. “I can take care of myself.”
“I believe that,” I say. “But if two or three guys rushed in here with bad intentions…”
She smirks. “And what are your intentions, then?”
Before I can respond, she sits up straighter. “Sorry, that was super flirty. I don’t usually flirt with married men.”
Maybe it’s because she genuinely looks mortified or something else but I hear myself say, “I’m not really married.”
She blinks. “Oh?”
“I mean, I am,” I correct quickly. “But we’re separated.”
“Ah.” She studies me for a second. “Can I ask why?”
I look at her, surprised by the bluntness.
“Sorry,” she says, holding up a hand. “That was nosy. You don’t have to tell me.”
Deciding to take the out, I hand her my business card and make a hasty exit.
What the hell am I doing telling a random woman Jess and I are separated.
We’re way past the sixty-day limit now, and one thing has become clear, I don’t wanna loose her.
Dr. Brett, while an amazing listener, sometimes feels like he has an ulterior motive. He keeps nudging me toward couples counseling, and I can’t help wondering if that’s just to garner more revenue for their center.
Maybe that makes me cynical.
But I make a living off reading people, off knowing how fear and uncertainty work. I’ve counted on those things to run my business.
Hell, there were times in the past when I exaggerated risks to get a client to sign on for more hours than they really needed.
I don’t do that anymore.
But like I said, 2024.
That year changed a lot of things.
So yeah, maybe I’m suspicious by nature.
But I can’t get the image of my wife screwing someone in a bathroom out of my head.
She never told me where it happened. And honestly, I didn’t want the details. I still don’t. But that hasn’t stopped my mind from filling in the blanks.
From conjuring up images of her giving what I thought was mine to someone else.
Her moans. Her pleasure.
There are so many questions running through my head, and they’re not the ones people assume. Not “who was he?” or “what did he look like?”
It’s worse than that.
Did she come?
Did they talk after?
Did she cry in his arms?
If I ever mess up again, will she call him?
Those are the questions I should be asking her.
But what if she answers yes?
How the hell am I supposed to justify forgiving her then?