Chapter 8 Logan
LOGAN
I’d seen a lot of badly-written lyrics in my life. Still, nothing prepared me for the overwritten, overanalyzed, and ridiculous fake relationship contract Elizabeth Bailey wanted me to sign.
“Third clause, subsection B: ‘Monthly jointly publicized appearances at three-tiered charity events.’” Elizabeth’s fingers flew across her laptop keys like she was drafting the Magna Carta instead of a PR stunt.
I slouched deeper into my chair as she scrolled. My pulse hit fast-forward. “This feels excessive.”
Elizabeth didn’t even glance up. “It’s necessary.”
Sophie, perched happily beside me, tapped a manicured finger against the table.
“Okay, so to recap. The agreement is to be in a relationship for three months and attend at least six high-profile events together. All I have to do is be me, but Logan”—she peered at the contract and read from its pages—“will not, under any circumstances, ruin this with ‘unfortunate choices.’”
I raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunate choices?”
Elizabeth stared me down. “Scandals.”
I smirked. “Define scandal.”
She sighed through her nose, her hands still flying over the keyboard. “Scandals include, but are not limited to, bar fights, arrest warrants, inappropriate tattoos, destroying hotel rooms, offensive social media activity, and any public behavior that lands you on TMZ.”
Sophie trilled a laugh, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. “Well, that’s no fun. I feel like Logan would look great with an inappropriate tattoo.”
I smiled. “Depends. What’s the tattoo?”
“Something classic.” She giggled. “Maybe a butterfly on your lower back.”
Elizabeth didn’t even look up. “No tattoos.”
I pointed at her. “Noted.”
Sophie beamed. “Logan and I need to be believable. We should have a signature thing. What about matching bracelets?”
Elizabeth gave a flat “No.”
Sophie pouted. “Matching necklaces?”
Elizabeth flipped a page in her legal pad. “Okay, next: public interactions. We need a game plan for how we present the relationship.”
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “You’re telling me there’s a rulebook on how to hold hands now?”
Elizabeth straightened. “Yes, actually.”
I blinked. “That was sarcasm.”
She handed me a printed document.
It was titled ‘Public Interactions & The Art of Believability.’
I stared at it. Then at her. Then, back at the over-the-top document in my hands.
Sophie took a sip of her water. “I’d like to suggest incorporating ‘cute couple moments’ for the fans. Nothing too staged. It should feel organic. Feeding each other beignets, dancing at a jazz club, twinning outfits—”
I turned to Sophie, horrified. “Twinning outfits?”
Elizabeth didn’t blink before shooting down the plan. “No.”
I smirked. “You okay over there, Elizabeth? You know, you should try to relax.”
She gave me a tight smile. “You should try taking something seriously.”
Sophie giggled. “I think Logan cares a lot. He just has a funny way of showing it.”
The contract conversation dragged on for far too long, covering everything from clauses and conditions to legalities and event schedules, and even a ridiculous segment on the appropriate duration of public eye contact.
Sophie giggled a lot. A never-ending stream of tiny, fluttery laugh bubbles clogging up the air.
Clearly, she was into this whole fake-relationship show.
I, on the other hand, felt like I was being slowly suffocated by fine print and forced enthusiasm. Like I’d agreed to fake date someone and accidentally signed up for a very tedious cult.
Across the table, Elizabeth was thriving.
To me, the whole thing felt like a prison sentence.
And Elizabeth was the warden.
I knew her type. Control freak, perfectionist, lives and dies by the rules. She was the kind of person who thrived on structure, the way I thrived on chaos.
Sophie was the one I was pretending to date. Sophie was easy. Sweet, agreeable, charming. The kind of person who didn’t need me to be anything other than a photogenic accessory.
Elizabeth, on the other hand? She wanted order, responsibility, a plan.
She wanted to change me.
Just like my father did.
The thought settled heavily in my chest. The words weren’t the same, but the message was. You’re not enough as you are.
I rubbed a thumb along the edge of the table, pushing back the itch under my skin.
My father had spent years trying to mold me. And now here was Elizabeth Bailey, clipboard in hand, picking up where he left off.
At least he wasn’t here to see this.
I forced a smirk and leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms behind my head like I didn’t have a care in the world. “So, if I sign this, do I officially belong to you?”
Elizabeth didn’t even look up from her laptop. “You wanted your career back. This is how you do it.”
I tensed. “Yeah? And what if I don’t want to be controlled?”
She sighed, looking unimpressed. “It’s not about control, Logan. It’s about strategy.”
“Same thing,” I muttered, clenching my jaw. I was done with this conversation. I shoved my chair back, standing up, even though I knew I had nowhere to go.
That was the thing. I could be as angry as I wanted, could act like this whole thing was some massive inconvenience, but at the end of the day, I wasn’t the one calling the shots. Not anymore.
I needed this. I needed the carefully orchestrated PR miracle Elizabeth was trying to pull out of thin air. Without it, my career wasn’t just in trouble, it was over.
So, yeah. I knew I had to do this.
Letting Elizabeth boss me around and pretending to be madly in love with Sophie Hartwell. Playing along for three months, as if my career depended on it. Because, unfortunately, it did.
I could sit here and let them script my life, telling me how to behave and deciding who I was supposed to be.
But I didn’t have to like it.
I shoved the pen across the table and signed away the next three months of my life.
Done. Over. No turning back.