10. Logan
— ? —
Logan
One month since the fire.
One month since I woke up in a hospital bed with my left arm wrapped in bandages and my wife’s ring on her pillow across the hall, the room she’d left without a word, and an empty space where she should have been.
Twenty months married. Four months left on the contract that was supposed to give me everything I wanted.
I don’t care about any of it anymore.
I’m in my lawyer’s office: Martin Ellison, family attorney, the man who’s handled Davis business for three decades, and he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Let me make sure I understand,” Martin says slowly. “You want to relinquish your claim to your grandmother’s inheritance. The entire conditional trust. All of it.”
“Yes.” The word comes easy, easier than anything has in months.
Martin sets down his pen and studies me over his glasses. “Even though you’ve nearly met the conditions? Twenty months of marriage, with only four remaining?”
“Yes.” I don’t look away.
“And you understand that this is voluntary? That no one is forcing you to give up approximately eight million dollars?”
“I understand.” Eight million dollars, and I have never wanted anything less.
Martin studies me across his desk. He’s known me since I was a child, watched me grow up, watched me disappoint my parents in a hundred small ways, watched me marry a stranger because my father told me to. He’s never looked at me the way he’s looking at me now.
“May I ask why?”
I think about how to answer. About the therapy sessions I’ve been attending three times a week, the conversations with Dr. Warren that have peeled back layers I didn’t know existed. About lying in that hospital bed, my arm on fire, staring at Fran’s ring and finally understanding what I’d done.
“Because I married her for the money,” I say. “And she deserved better than that. She deserved someone who chose her because he wanted to, not because his grandmother put conditions on a trust fund.”
“She knew about the arrangement-”
“She knew it was an arranged marriage. She didn’t know about the inheritance clause.” I meet Martin’s eyes. “I never told her. For twenty months, I let her think this was just business, and I never once explained why it had to be two years, why the timing mattered. I was too ashamed.”
Martin is quiet for a moment. “And now?”
“Now I’m trying to be someone worth choosing.” I lean forward. “There’s something else. Emilio Salazar owns a flower farm - technically it’s Fran’s, she built it, but the deed is in her father’s name. I want to buy it.”
“Buy it for yourself?”
“Buy it and transfer the title to her. Unconditionally. No strings, no requirements, no contact required.”
Martin’s eyebrows rise. “That’s a significant gesture.”
“It’s not a gesture. It’s the right thing to do.
” I think about Fran, about the way she talked about her flowers, about everything she built with her own hands that her father held over her head.
“She earned that land. I’m not going to let anyone use it as leverage against her - not her father, not my family, not me. ”
“And if she refuses?”
“Then she refuses. But at least she’ll have the choice.”
Martin nods slowly, making notes. “I’ll draw up the papers. The inheritance relinquishment will need to go through the estate trustees, but that’s mostly procedural. The farm purchase - I assume you’ll be using personal funds, not Davis company assets?”
“Personal funds only.” I’ve already done the math.
My savings, my investments, the money I’ve earned from commissions over the years, it’s enough.
More than enough. The workshop is a separate building; it survived the fire intact, so I can keep taking commissions while Theo handles the day-to-day business operations.
“I don’t want my family anywhere near this. ”
“Understood.” Martin sets down his pen again. “Logan, can I speak frankly?”
“Please.”
“In thirty years of handling your family’s affairs, I’ve never seen a Davis voluntarily give up money. Not once.” He pauses. “Whatever’s happening with you - whatever’s changed - I think it’s a good thing. For what it’s worth.”
I don’t know if it’s a good thing. I don’t know if anything I do now can make up for twenty months of failure. But it’s a start.
***
Dr. Warren keeps a box of tissues on the table between us and a clock on the wall behind my head, where I can’t watch it tick down to freedom.
I’ve gotten good at the talking part, better than I ever expected, better at putting words to things I spent my whole life stepping around.
It’s the part after the talking that flays me, the part where she asks a question and then just lets the quiet sit there until I stop performing an answer and start telling the truth, and the truth is never the thing I walked in prepared to say.
“Tell me about Sloane,” she says in our session that week.
I flinch at the name. I’ve been avoiding this topic, circling around it, hoping she’d let it go. She hasn’t.
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.” Dr. Warren’s voice is patient. “She seems to be a significant presence in your history.”
“We grew up together.” I stare at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes. “Our families were close - the Vaughns and the Davises, business partners for generations. Sloane was always around. Birthday parties, holidays, all of it.”
“And romantically?”
“Never.” The word comes out sharp. “We were friends. Close friends, maybe, but that’s all.”
“Your wife seemed to feel differently.”
The words land like a punch. Fran at the showcase, walking out with tears in her eyes. Fran telling me something was wrong while I refused to listen.
“Fran saw something I didn’t want to see,” I admit. “She saw Sloane positioning herself, making herself essential, filling spaces in my life that should have belonged to someone else.” I pause. “She tried to tell me. More than once. And I told her she was overreacting.”
“Why do you think you dismissed her concerns?”
“Because Sloane was easy.” The truth tastes bitter. “She knew me. She didn’t expect me to explain myself or change or be better. She just accepted the person I was, even when that person was cold and distant and failing at everything that mattered.”
“And Fran?”
“Fran expected more.” I finally meet Dr. Warren’s eyes. “Fran saw who I could be, not just who I was. And that terrified me.”
Dr. Warren nods slowly. “So you chose comfort over growth.”
“I chose cowardice over courage.” I run my good hand through my hair. “And now she’s gone, and I don’t know if I can ever-”
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
“You can check that if you need to,” Dr. Warren says.
“It’s probably nothing.”
But something makes me pull it out anyway. The name on the screen makes my stomach drop.
Sloane Vaughn.
“Excuse me,” I say, and step out into the hallway.
I don’t answer the call. I let it go to voicemail, then listen to the message she leaves, sweet and concerned and completely hollow.
“Logan, honey, I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. I heard about your recovery, about everything that’s happened since that night. I’m so worried about you. Please call me back. We need to talk.”
She sounds sincere. A month ago, I might have believed it.
But a month ago, I hadn’t faced the reality of how badly I’d failed my wife.
A month ago, I was still making excuses for Sloane’s behavior instead of seeing the pattern, how she’d inserted herself into every corner of my life, how she’d positioned herself between me and Fran at every opportunity, how she’d crossed boundaries I should have enforced years ago.
I don’t know exactly what happened the night of the fire. The investigators are still working, still piecing together evidence. But I know that Sloane lied to me about where Fran was. I know she pointed me away from the house instead of toward it. And I know that’s enough to be done.
I call her back.
“Logan!” Her voice is bright, relieved. “Thank God. I’ve been so worried-”
“Don’t call me again.”
Silence. Then: “What?”
“I’m serious, Sloane. Whatever this is - whatever you thought we were - it’s over. Don’t call, don’t come by, don’t try to see me.”
“Logan, I don’t understand. I thought we were friends-”
“So did I.” My voice is flat. “But friends don’t insert themselves into someone’s marriage the way you did. They don’t show up uninvited, monopolize attention, make someone’s wife feel invisible in her own home.”
More silence. Longer this time.
“I was just trying to help-” Her voice has changed, gone defensive. “You were struggling, and I thought-”
“You thought you could waltz back into my life and pick up where we left off. You thought my marriage was just an obstacle.” I close my eyes, forcing myself to stay calm.
“And then the night of the fire, you told me Fran wasn’t inside when she was.
You pointed me away from her instead of toward her.
I don’t know if you knew she was in there or not, but either way - that’s enough. ”
“Logan, please-”
“Goodbye, Sloane.”
I hang up and stand in the hallway for a long moment, breathing through the anger that’s coiling in my chest.
I’m done making excuses for people who cross boundaries and hurt the ones I love.
When I go back into Dr. Warren’s office, she takes one look at my face and says, “That seemed significant.”
“It was.” I sit down heavily. “I think I just ended a thirty-year friendship.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Like I should have done it months ago.”
***
The farm purchase goes through three weeks later.
Martin calls with the news, sounding almost surprised. “Emilio Salazar accepted your offer. The deed is being transferred - I’ll have papers for you to sign tomorrow.”
“Good.” I’m in my workshop, working on a piece I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “And the transfer to Fran?”
“Ready when you are. I’ll need her signature eventually, but the offer can be made unconditionally.”
“Do it.” I set down my tools. “Prepare the transfer documents and hold them until her lawyer can reach out to verify. I don’t know where she is, and I’m not going to track her down. But when she’s ready, I want the offer waiting.”
“And if she refuses?”
“Then it sits there until she changes her mind.” I look at my bandaged arm, at the scars that are slowly forming beneath the gauze. “She built that place from nothing. It should belong to her.”
I don’t tell Martin about the other changes I’m making. The therapy sessions. The boundaries with my family. The way I’ve started talking to Theo, really talking, not just grunting and retreating into silence.
“You’re different,” Theo said last week, watching me work on a commission I’d been putting off for months. “I don’t know how to explain it, but - you’re actually here now. Not hiding behind the work.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” He was quiet for a moment, then grinned. “For what it’s worth, I’m actually enjoying the business stuff. Turns out I’m good at it. Who knew?”
“Everyone except you, apparently.” I wiped my hands on a rag. “You sure you want to keep doing this? It’s not exactly what you signed up for.”
“Signed up for it the second I realized I actually like it.” He shrugged. “Eventually I’ll take over the whole thing and you can cut ties completely. Mom and Dad will be too busy managing me to bother you.”
“That’s your retirement plan? Professional distraction?”
“It’s a talent.” He grinned wider. “Besides, gives me an excuse to stay out of trouble. Mostly.”
And maybe, eventually, that will be enough.
***
Theo calls every few days now.
It’s become a rhythm, checking in, sharing news, the careful dance of brothers who are finally learning how to talk to each other. He never tells me where Fran is. I never ask. But he tells me she’s safe, she’s healing, she’s building something new.
“She’s helping with a community garden,” he says one night. “Apparently she’s become some kind of local celebrity. The grandmas love her.”
“The grandmas?”
“Don’t ask. It’s a whole thing.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “She sounds good, Logan. Better than she was.”
“Good.” The word comes out rough. “That’s good.”
“Are you okay?”
I think about it. About the therapy and the changes and the slow, painful process of becoming someone better.
“I’m trying to be,” I say. “I think that’s all I can do right now.”
“Yeah.” Theo’s voice softens. “I think that’s enough.”
I hope he’s right.