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.

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.

She guided me to the sofa, went to the kitchen, came back with tea that I didn’t ask for and didn’t need but accepted because she’d made it and she’d made it for me and that was what she did, took care of people through the things available to her.

I held the mug in both hands and said nothing for a while.

Brooke sat across from me, patient in the way she’d always been patient. She was not performing patience, nor was she visibly waiting for me to speak, just genuinely comfortable with silence.