Chapter 24 Audrey
Audrey
When Logan said ‘apartment,’ I pictured a high-rise. Maybe something sleek and modern in the Loop, or a converted loft in the West Loop. Something that screamed tech billionaire with minimalist taste.
What I’m looking at is a three-story Victorian mansion in Lincoln Park, complete with a wraparound porch, carved stonework, and the kind of manicured hedges that require a full-time gardener.
It looks like something out of a period drama—the kind of place where people drink sherry and discuss inheritances.
“I thought you had an apartment,” I say, staring up at it through the windshield of his Lucid Air.
“I do.” Logan pulls into the curved driveway and parks. “In that.”
“That’s not an apartment building. That’s a house. A very large, very old, very expensive house.”
“It’s one of the family estates. I have my own space on the second floor. Separate entrance, separate everything. My parents use the rest of the house when they’re in town.”
“Just one of the family estates? You have plural estates?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to mention that I was having dinner at Downton Abbey before now?”
He cuts the engine and turns to face me. In the fading evening light, he looks tired. Nervous. Like he’s bracing for impact.
“I didn’t really know how to explain it,” he admits. “It’s... complicated.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I promise I’ll explain everything. But first, let me show you my space. Before we go downstairs.”
I want to demand answers now, but there’s something in his expression that makes me hold back. A vulnerability I’m not used to seeing from him.
“OK,” I say. “Show me where you live.”
His apartment is accessed through a side entrance—a separate door with its own security system, completely independent from the main house. The moment we climb the stairs and step inside, I understand why he calls it his.
It’s nothing like what I imagined.
The space is warm and lived-in, full of books and plants and the kind of comfortable clutter that accumulates when someone actually uses a space instead of just existing in it.
There’s a worn leather couch facing a massive window that overlooks the back garden.
A kitchen with actual cooking supplies, not just the decorative kind.
Art on the walls that looks chosen for love rather than investment value.
“This is yours,” I say, and it’s not a question.
“This is mine.” He’s watching me take it in, something hopeful in his expression. “I had it built out when I was twenty-five. Separate HVAC, separate utilities, separate entrance. The only thing we share is the property line.”
“You built yourself a sanctuary.”
“I built myself a life they couldn’t touch.” He moves to the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. “They have access to the rest of the house—the main floors, the formal rooms. But they can’t come in here. This door stays locked to everyone but me.”
“And now, me.”
He pauses, bottle in hand, and looks at me. “And now, you.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tight. Like he’s letting me past more than just a door.
He pours the wine and hands me a glass, then gestures toward the couch. We settle in together, my legs curled under me, his arm around my shoulders. For a moment, we just sit in the quiet, looking out at the garden as the last light fades from the sky.
“Tell me what I’m walking into,” I say finally. “I want to be prepared.”
Logan takes a long breath. “My mother’s name is Caroline.
She comes from a family that used to have money but lost most of it two generations ago.
She married my father because he had the name and the status she wanted.
Everything she does is about maintaining appearances—the right clothes, the right friends, the right way of speaking.
She’ll be polite to your face, but every word will be a test. She’ll be looking for weaknesses. ”
“And your father?”
“Edmund.” The name comes out flat. “He’s.
.. quieter. More subtle. My mother attacks from the front.
My father flanks. He’ll ask questions that seem innocent but are designed to make you feel small.
He’s spent his entire life making people feel like they don’t measure up, and he’s very, very good at it. ”
“Including you?”
“Especially me.” He stares into his wineglass.
“I was never the son he wanted. I was too awkward, too interested in the wrong things. He wanted someone he could mold into a proper Whitman heir—someone who’d go into finance or law, marry the right girl, produce the right grandchildren. Instead, he got me.”
“A tech genius with two PhDs who put up the capital for two companies that are worth billions?”
“A disappointment who’d rather write code than attend galas to make the family look good.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Nothing I’ve ever done has been good enough. The company, the money, none of it matters. I’m still the weird kid who couldn’t make eye contact at dinner parties.”
I set down my wine and turn to face him fully. “Logan. You’re not that kid anymore.”
“I know. But when I’m around them, it doesn’t feel that way.
” He meets my eyes, and the rawness there makes my heart ache.
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Audrey. Not that they’ll hurt you—though they’ll try—but that you’ll see me the way I am around them.
Small. Defensive. Nothing like the person I want to be. ”
“Hey.” I cup his face in my hands, making him look at me. “I’ve seen you at your most vulnerable. I’ve seen you fumble and stumble and blurt out confessions you weren’t ready to make. And I’m still here. Your parents don’t scare me.”
“They should.”
“Maybe. But I’m not going anywhere.” I press a kiss to his forehead. “We do this together. Whatever happens down there, we'll face it together. I’m in this for the long haul. OK?”
He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “OK.”
We access the main house through a door that opens onto the first floor’s landing—a grand staircase with a stained-glass window swallowing the last of the day’s light and painting fractured color over the polished wood.
The house is silent except for the echo of my boots on the runner.
Every surface glistens. Every angle is intimidating.
It feels like an architectural thesis statement.
Look who we are. Look what we have. Even the air is temperature-controlled for maximum discomfort.
Logan doesn’t hesitate, but his shoulders round as we descend. I want to put a hand on his back, steady him, but I suspect that would be the equivalent of blowing a kazoo at a military parade. I follow him because he knows the way and because his whole body says, Don’t leave me alone at the front.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, he laces his fingers with mine and leads me to the formal dining room. It’s exactly as intimidating as I imagined.
The room is all dark wood and crystal chandeliers, with a table long enough to seat twenty and place settings that have more forks than I know how to use. Portraits line the walls—generations of Whitmans staring down with identical expressions of mild disapproval.
Caroline Whitman is already seated when we arrive, dressed in something elegant and understated.
She’s beautiful in that preserved way that speaks of good genetics and better dermatologists, with silver-blonde hair swept into a perfect chignon and eyes that assess me like I’m a piece of furniture she’s considering purchasing.
“Logan, darling.” She offers her cheek for a kiss that barely makes contact. “How lovely that you could join us.”
“Mother.” Logan’s voice is carefully neutral. “This is Audrey. Audrey, my mother, Caroline.”
“Mrs. Whitman.” I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She takes it with the kind of limp grip that suggests she’s never had to shake hands with anyone who actually matters. “Audrey. Yes, Logan mentioned you. You’re the scientist.”
“Biomedical engineer, actually.”
“Mmm.” She releases my hand. “How... practical.”
Before I can respond, a door opens, and Edmund Whitman enters. He’s tall, silver-haired, and carries himself with the easy confidence of a man who’s never been told no. He looks like Logan might in thirty years, if Logan spent those decades being disappointed in everyone around him.
“You must be Audrey.” He doesn’t offer his hand, just looks me over with a small, assessing smile. “Logan has been quite secretive about you. I was beginning to think he’d invented a girlfriend to get his mother off his back.”
“I’m very real, I assure you.”
“So I see.” His gaze lingers a moment too long, cataloging everything—my dress, my shoes, the way I’m standing. “Well. Shall we sit? Maria has prepared lamb.”
We take our seats, Logan and I on one side, his parents on the other. The table is wide enough that it feels like we’re in separate rooms. A uniformed server appears to pour wine, and I resist the urge to down my entire glass in one go.
“So, Audrey.” Caroline unfolds her napkin with practiced precision. “Logan tells me your family is in the automotive industry.”
“My father and brothers own an auto repair shop in Bridgeport.”
“How industrious.” The word drips with condescension. “And your mother?”
“She passed away when I was six.”
A flicker of something crosses Caroline’s face—not sympathy, more like recalibration. “I see. How unfortunate. And you were raised by your father alone?”
“With a lot of help from my brothers. They’re good men.”
“I’m sure they are.” She sips her wine. “It must have been quite an adjustment, coming from that background into Logan’s world. The galas, the expectations, the social obligations.”
“We haven’t attended any galas.”