Billionaire, I Am Not Your Wife! novel Chapter 78

Chapter 73

Logan’s POV

But tonight there was nothing I could do about any of it. Tonight I had sat in my son’s lavender-scented room and taken a deep inventory of all the things that i hyad failed to learn when i still had the chance, and now i was seated alone in my study, in the dead of the night with untouched whiskey and feeling like a fraudster.

I thought about calling someone, anyone to shut the shouting that my conscience was doing to me. i thought about calling Catherine, she would understand, but i had promised my son that I was going to find his mum, i doubt he wanted to see any traces of her here anymore and i would not blame it.

i also thought about calling my lawyer, who would be asleep and shouldn’t be served by a phone call at two AM from a client having a crisis of conscience.

Marcus Reeve, same problem.

There was only one person I wanted to talk to. And I couldn’t call her because her phone was

disconnected and she was somewhere in a city that might not be here, and erasing herself from existence with me and Nick, with help from people she never told me about.

I stood up, sat down, stood up again.

Brooke’s face in my memory. *Something’s very wrong. Find her before it’s too late.* Brooke never said things she didn’t mean. I picked up my car keys.

I drove through empty streets, past closed restaurants and dark storefronts and traffic lights that kept rotating through their color changes for no one in particular..

Chicago at two in the morning had a particular quality, at 3 am in the morning, it was stripped of the morning rush that often categories it as the busiest city.

I drove without entirely knowing where I was going until I found myself turning into Brooke’s neighborhood, and then I knew I’d known all along, subconsciously, that this was where I was headed.

The mansion was dark when I pulled up. Of course it was dark. It was three in the morning and all the house staff had probably gone home for the night. And my grandmother was in her eighties and probably fast asleep. like any other sensible person and I was sitting outside her house in my car, deciding if i should ring the bell or drive back home because this was clearly a bad idea.

I rang the bell.

There was a long pause. Then a light came on upstairs, and then in the hallway, and then the front door opened and Brooke stood there in her bathrobe with her white hair loose, not tied up in the way she always wore it in the dark and her face did something complicated when she saw me, much like concern and shock, especially she wasn’t expecting me here.

She took in whatever was on my face. Whatever had been accumulating there since the hospital parking

3 Confession Arght!

let, hell since Sedona left and made a decision.

“Come inside,” she said.

Claim

She didn’t ask whatt was doing there. She didn’t comment on the hour or the state of me, that seemed to be slightly drunk or at the very least intoxicated or the fact that I was clearly not in a condition to have driven anywhere alone. She just stepped back and opened the door wider and I came in.

Her living room was familiar, nothing changed, i had spent time here as a child, adolescent and then an adult who visited too infrequently. The photographs on the mantle, the particular furniture arrangement that had never changed, the specific smell of her house that I never forgot, something that predated even my existence.

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