23. Fran
— ? —
Fran
The Davis Furniture showcase is held at the company’s flagship showroom, a sprawling glass-and-timber space in the heart of downtown that I visited once before, for an industry event three months into our marriage.
The night Logan unveiled the Sloane table was at a different venue entirely, a converted warehouse across town.
That humiliation happened somewhere else.
Tonight will be different.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I check my reflection in the bedroom mirror one last time.
The dress Bree helped me pick is dark navy, structured in a way that flatters rather than hides.
At twenty-five weeks, my belly is unmistakably visible, but the clever draping and the fitted coat I’m wearing over it make me feel polished and deliberate.
I look like a woman who is visibly pregnant and has excellent taste in architectural fashion.
That’s intentional. I can’t control whether people notice, but I can control which personal questions I choose to answer, and when.
“You look amazing,” Logan says from the doorway.
I turn to face him, and my breath catches a little despite myself.
He’s in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was made for his body, which it probably was, with his dark hair pushed back and his jaw freshly shaved.
The only thing that marks him as different from the polished heir he used to be is the way he’s looking at me: open, anxious, completely focused on my comfort rather than his own appearance.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks. “We can still cancel. No one would blame you.”
“I’m sure.” I smooth down my coat. “We talked about it. I agreed. I’m not backing out now.”
“But if you change your mind-”
“Logan.” I walk over and put my hand on his chest. “I want to do this. I want people to see us together, to hear what you have to say. And I want-” I hesitate, then forge ahead.
“I want to stop hiding. From your family, from the industry, from everyone who watched me walk out of that bathroom crying and never heard the truth.”
He covers my hand with his. “You know they might not believe it. Some of them will think it’s a performance.”
“Let them think what they want. I’ll know it’s real. That’s enough.”
He nods slowly, then leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not.” I smile. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”
***
The showroom is already crowded when we arrive.
I recognize some faces from before, industry people, journalists, the same glittering crowd that witnessed my humiliation at the last showcase.
They notice us immediately, heads turning, whispers starting.
I can practically see the calculations happening behind their eyes: the estranged wife, back on his arm. What does it mean? What’s the story?
Logan’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “Okay?”
“Fine.” I lift my chin. “Let’s find Theo.”
Theo is holding court near the bar, surrounded by a cluster of women who seem very interested in whatever he’s saying. When he spots us, his face breaks into a grin and he excuses himself immediately.
“There she is.” He pulls me into a careful hug. “Looking like a queen. How are you feeling?”
“Nervous. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” He steps back, examining my outfit. “The coat is a nice touch. Very mysterious. Very ‘I might be carrying the heir to the Davis fortune but also I might just be fashionable.’”
“That was the goal.”
“Nailed it.” He turns to Logan. “You ready for this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Great. Because Mom’s already on her third champagne and Dad’s been cornered by the Hendersons, so your timing could not be worse.” Theo grins. “Welcome home.”
We make our way through the crowd, stopping every few feet for introductions and small talk. I let Logan handle most of it, playing the supportive partner rather than the center of attention. There will be time for that later.
Genevieve finds us near the sculpture display.
She’s impeccable as always, silver hair swept up, ice-blue dress that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Her eyes flick over me with that familiar assessment, calculating my worth, my usefulness, my threat level.
“Francisca,” she says coolly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“It’s Fran.” I keep my voice pleasant. “And Logan invited me.”
“Did he.” Her gaze shifts to her son. “I assume this is part of your… rehabilitation.”
“It’s part of telling the truth,” Logan says. “Which I should have done a long time ago.”
Genevieve’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind her eyes.
She knows about Sloane. We made sure she was informed before tonight, so she wouldn’t be blindsided.
Her reaction, when Harlan told her, was apparently horror followed by immediate denial followed by a long, silent car ride home.
She hasn’t spoken to Sloane since.
“The truth,” Genevieve repeats. “Yes, well. I suppose we’re all learning things we’d rather not know these days.”
“Mom-”
“Not now, Logan.” She holds up a hand. “We’ll discuss this later. In private. For now, let’s get through the evening without any more… surprises.”
Logan’s voice is quiet but steady. “Don’t discuss my wife as a family problem, Mom. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Genevieve’s mouth thins. For a moment I see something flicker across Logan’s face, a tension in his jaw, the cost of standing there waiting for her reaction. But he doesn’t look away.
She doesn’t answer. She sweeps away, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“That went well,” Theo says.
“Shut up,” Logan mutters.
“I’m just saying, she didn’t throw her drink at anyone. That’s progress.”
I look around the room, searching for the one face I haven’t seen yet. “Is Sloane here?”
“Haven’t spotted her.” Theo’s voice drops. “But she was invited. All the old guard gets automatic invites to these things. If she shows up-”
“We handle it.” Logan’s jaw is tight. “Whatever happens, we handle it together.”
The program starts at eight.
Logan takes the stage with his father, and I find a spot near the side of the room where I can watch without being the center of attention. Theo positions himself beside me, a solid presence in case anything goes wrong.
Harlan speaks first, the usual platitudes about innovation and craftsmanship and the Davis legacy. He’s smoother than Logan, more comfortable in the spotlight, but there’s a strain around his eyes that wasn’t there before. He knows what his son is about to do. He doesn’t like it.
But he’s not stopping it, either. Image-first, I remind myself. Harlan cares about the family’s reputation above all else. And right now, the best way to protect that reputation is to get ahead of the story before it breaks in a way they can’t control.
Then Logan steps forward, and the room goes quiet.
“Thank you all for being here tonight,” he begins. “Before we get to the new collection, there’s something I need to say. Something I should have said a long time ago.”
He takes a breath. I can see his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
“At the last showcase, I stood on a stage very similar to this one and unveiled a piece I’d been working on for months. A dressing table. I gave it a name - a woman’s name - and I talked about how I’d designed it for her, with her in mind, based on what she’d told me she needed.”
The silence in the room is absolute. People are glancing at each other, at me, at Harlan, trying to figure out where this is going.
“What I didn’t talk about,” Logan continues, “was my wife. The woman I married. The woman who was standing in that audience, watching me dedicate my work to someone else. The woman I treated like staff instead of a partner, like an obligation instead of the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I feel Theo’s hand on my elbow, steadying me.
“I made a lot of mistakes in my marriage,” Logan says.
“I let other people belittle my wife in front of me and said nothing. I came home to dinners she’d cooked and didn’t think to tell her I appreciated them.
I kept her at arm’s length in public because I was scared of what my family might think, and I told myself it was for her protection when really it was for mine. ”
His voice cracks slightly, and he pauses to collect himself.
“I’m not going to stand here and make excuses. There aren’t any. I was cold, and distant, and cowardly, and the woman I loved suffered for it. Not because I didn’t care about her, but because I didn’t know how to show it in ways that mattered.”
He looks directly at me now, and I feel the weight of every eye in the room following his gaze.
“Fran, I’m sorry. Not just privately, where it’s easy, but here, in front of everyone who saw me fail you.
I’m sorry for the dressing table. I’m sorry for every dinner I didn’t thank you for.
I’m sorry for making you feel invisible in your own marriage.
And I’m sorry it took me losing you to understand what I had. ”
The room is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat.
“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Logan says. “That’s not why I’m saying this. I’m saying it because you deserved to hear it in public, the same way you were hurt in public. And because everyone in this room should know the truth about who you are and how I treated you.”
He steps back from the microphone, and for a long moment, no one moves.
Then Theo starts clapping.
It’s slow at first, almost awkward, but it catches on. A smattering of applause that grows into something more substantial, not thunderous, but real. Acknowledgment. Recognition.
I find myself moving through the crowd toward the stage, and Logan meets me at the edge of it, his face raw and hopeful.
“Was that-” he starts.
“It was perfect.” I take his hand. “Thank you.”
“Do you want to say anything?” He gestures toward the microphone. “You don’t have to, but if you want-”