Chapter 5

Mia's POV

At one in the morning, the rain outside turned into a torrential downpour.

Sitting in the back of a cab, I watched the neon lights blur past the wet window, my eyes hollow. Half an hour ago, Logan's assistant, Joe, had called me, on the verge of tears. "Mia, could you please come to The Velvet Room? Mr. Davis had too much to drink at the celebration dinner. He refuses to get in my car, and nobody can talk sense into him."

I hadn't wanted to go. Knowing the truth, even hearing Logan's name made me sick. But when I caught the faint sound of his stifled coughing over the line, I still grabbed my coat and ran out into the storm.

I despised my muscle memory. I despised how I had been conditioned over three years to act like a loyal dog, still wagging its tail at the slightest sound of its master's distress.

Inside the private VIP lounge, Logan was slouched deep into the leather sofa. His usually crisp dress shirt was rumpled, the collar unbuttoned to reveal his sharp collarbones. His deep-set eyes were squeezed shut, his brow knit tight in pain.

"Mr. Davis, Mia is here," Joe said hurriedly.

Logan didn't open his eyes. I walked over, but I didn't smooth the furrow between his brows, nor did I coo gentle words to soothe him. I simply reached out, took his arm with cold efficiency, and said flatly, "Logan. Get up. We're going home."

Miraculously, the man who had lashed out at anyone who tried to touch him actually leaned into my strength and stood up. His tall frame swayed, leaning heavily against my slender shoulder. The sharp stench of alcohol, mixed with the faint traces of his usual tobacco, washed over me instantly.

Gritting my teeth, I half-dragged, half-supported him into the waiting cab.

The car was stuffy. The driver, a man in his fifties, glanced back and muttered casually, "Kids these days. Drinking like there's no tomorrow, and in the end, it's always the wife who has to come clean up the mess."

I didn't say a word, keeping my eyes fixed out the window.

Logan leaned heavily against my shoulder, his breath hot and ragged. His head shifted with the bumps in the road, his soft hair brushing against my neck. In the past, I would have found this a sweet burden. I would have cradled his head gently to make him more comfortable. Now, my entire body was rigid with disgust.

As the car climbed onto the elevated highway, a dead silence fell over the cab.

Just then, Logan stirred. His hand groped blindly across my lap until he found mine. His palm was large, callused from years of drafting, and burning hot. His fingers tightened, gripping my hand in a crushing hold.

Frowning, I tried to pull away, but Logan buried his face deeper into the crook of my neck. A low, heavily nasal murmur broke the silence of the car:

"Clara..."

It was so soft, barely an unconscious whisper, yet it struck like a dagger driven straight through my heart.