Chapter 27
Logan
Dani’s call came in right after Harper’s bedtime.
I was still sitting on the edge of the small bed in the hotel room, phone balanced in my hand. The distant wail of a siren snakes through the thick, humid air, blending with the honking cars and murmurs of the bustling city outside.
Harper had fallen asleep mid-sentence tonight, mouth open, lashes fluttering, fingers still clutching the stuffed animal she refuses to leave behind.
Then the screen had shifted To Dani.
She was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a full wineglass in her hand.
As she lightly swirls the glass, the wine sloshed perilously close to the rim, but her gaze remained distant, unfocused.
Her shoulders drawn in tighter than usual, hair pulled back in a loose knot with a few strands escaping around her face.
She looks like she’d been holding herself together by will alone.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice even. Calm. Neutral. The way I’ve trained it to be when things seemed uncertain. “She out?”
She nods, managing a weak smile. “Yeah.”
She lifts the glass, takes a sip, then sets it down like she’s forgotten why she picked it up in the first place.
The silence dragged, making my shoulders square and my instincts go on alert. The phone angle shifts, showing her face more clearly. I clear my throat, trying to bridge the gap between us. Her eyes flick to the screen, then drop to her wineglass.
“So,” I keep my words slow, gentle. “You okay, Counselor?”
She hesitates, and I can tell she’s deciding how much to give me.
“We went to my parents’ this afternoon,” she said finally.
“It was our usual lunch,” she continues. “But of course I brought Harper.”
Her mouth twists slightly, like she doesn’t quite believe that word belongs to the story.
“And?”
She shrugs, but it’s tight. Controlled. “And it was fine. Until it wasn’t.”
I lean back against the headboard, rubbing a hand over my face. I already know where this is going, and I don’t like any version of it. She’d told me some things about her childhood in recent days since we’d gotten closer.
“They asked questions about work. About… you.” Her eyes flick up to the camera, searching my face. “About what exactly I’m doing with my life.”
I keep my expression steady. Inside, something sharp coils.
“What’d they say?” I ask.
She swallows. Her throat works like she’s forcing the words past something stuck there.
“They asked if I was your nanny,” she shared.
The word lands wrong. Sour. Dismissive.
My jaw clenches hard enough that it almost aches.
“I told them I was helping out. That you were working. That I loved spending time with Harper.” She lets out a breath that sounds more like a sigh than air. “They didn’t hear any of that.”
I can picture it. Her parents’ looks, the judgment she’s carried her whole damn life. The kind of cut that doesn’t need raised voices.
“They asked if I was dating you,” she continues. “And when they didn’t like my answer, my dad said he didn’t come to this country, didn’t sacrifice everything, for me to… throw it away.” Adding air quotes as her voice wobbles slightly.
I stare at the screen, at the woman who has given my daughter safety and laughter and warmth without ever asking for anything in return, and something hot and protective coils low in my gut.
I hate that she’s hurting.
I hate that I can’t reach through the damn phone and pull her into my arms and make it stop.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I keep my voice low. The way I do when Harper’s scared.
“Dani, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
She laughs softly, but it’s broken. “They made it sound like I am.”
“That’s on them,” I say immediately, without hesitation. “Not you.”
She looks at me then, like she’s searching for something in my face.
“I sent Harper to put her shoes on,” she admits. “I didn’t want her hearing any of it.”
My throat tightens.
“Good, she doesn’t need that.”
“You’re very protective,” Dani said teasingly.
“I don’t like seeing you upset,” I replied bluntly because it’s the safest truth I can give her.
She nods, blinking fast. “I meant…of Harper.”
I shift uncomfortably. “She’s my kid.”
“You get that look,” she adds gently. “Like you’re readying yourself for battle.”
I want to tell her she deserves better. That her parents don’t get to define her worth. That helping my daughter doesn’t make her small. It makes her extraordinary.
I want to tell her that the idea of anyone looking down on her makes something ugly and fierce wake up inside me.
But instead, something colder slips in: logic, fear.
Because her parents are right about one thing. I am complicated, older, widowed. Still carrying a history that doesn’t fade just because I want it to.
And sitting there, it felt like my chest was wrapped in constricting iron bands, each breath a struggle against the weight of responsibility.
The thought of stepping over the line I shouldn’t cross was like facing a wall of sharp, unyielding spikes, daring me to push forward, yet threatening to pierce through the veneer of control I’ve painstakingly maintained.
Dani deserves a life without my shadows.
So I say the careful thing. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” I tell her. “Least of all me.”
Her brows knit slightly. “That’s not what this is.”
“I know,” I said. And I do. I just don’t know how to say the rest without unraveling everything.
Her voice levels, sounding more assured. “I told them I’m choosing what feels right.”
Something in me aches at that. Deep and sharp.
“You should,” I said, “Always.”
She studies my face again. “You say that like you don’t believe it applies to you.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “I’m not the example you wanna follow, Darlin’.”
Her lips curve faintly, but her eyes stay serious. “You’re allowed to want things too, Logan.”
Am I? The question echoes in my head long after she says it.
I think of Elena. Of promises I made at a graveside, I still visit. Of the way moving forward has always felt like betrayal.
I think of Harper. Of how careful I’ve been not to disrupt her world.
And I think of Dani: bright and alive and far too good to get tangled up in my mess.
“I just want you to know,” I say instead, choosing my words like they’re glass, “that whatever they said… it doesn’t change how I see you.”
Her bright brown eyes soften and hold mine for a moment before she nods.
“That helps,” she says. “More than you know.”
I nod once. “Get some rest, yeah?”
She gives me a small, tired smile. “You too.”
The screen goes dark.
I sit there long after, phone still warm in my hand, chest tight with things I won’t name yet.
I hate that she cried.
I hate that I couldn’t fix it.
And I hate, absolutely hate, that a part of me believes this only proves what I’ve known from the moment I met her.
That I had no business being involved with her.
That wanting her might mean hurting her.
And I don’t know if I can live with that.