Chapter 45

• In his vast, luxurious penthouse office, Logan leaned back in his leather chair, his sharp eyes fixed on me as I knelt on the cold marble floor. The dim light from the city skyline cast long shadows across the room, highlighting his chiseled features and the unreadable expression in his gaze.
• I wore a simple white dress that hugged my waist, a deep blue cashmere coat draped over my shoulders. My hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, secured with a silk ribbon—far from the elaborate styles that signified a woman engaged. My face must have given away my exhaustion; my complexion was pale, and dark circles clung stubbornly beneath my eyes. Remnants of unshed tears lingered on my lashes, but I refused to look weak. I wasn’t weak. Whatever sorrow burned in my chest, it was my own, and I would carry it with dignity.
• “Good evening, Logan,” I said, my voice hoarse but steady.