Page 83 of Logan
Good fucking riddance.
With a bitter laugh that morphs into a broken sob halfway through, I lean over the edge of the bed and rummage through my open suitcase.
My seeking fingers close around the smooth, familiar shape I’m looking for, and I pull out the hot pink vibrator with a triumphant flourish.
“Looks like it’s just you and me now, my trusty little friend,” I murmur.
The bed still smells like him, like us, and it makes me want to bury my face in the pillow and scream.
“You know what? I think I’ll call you Little Logan from now on,” I muse, inspecting the vibrator with a critical eye. “And you’re the only Logan who’s going to be getting anywhere near my pussy anytime soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
LOGAN
“Please schedule a meeting with Congressman Smith for me,” I say into the sleek black speaker on my mahogany desk.
The secretary on the other end of the line mutters something, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping that she knows what she’s doing because I’m not in the mood to go through the tedious process of replacing another assistant.
I returned to the office a few days ago, and the nagging headache that had been my constant companion for months has come back with a vengeance, as if it had just been lying in wait in my leather executive chair, biding its time until the perfect moment to pounce on me and reclaim its usual place at the base of my skull.
I lean back in my chair, the supple leather creaking. If only people would do their damn jobs, I wouldn’t have to deal with this constant debilitating pain.
It’s a miracle I get anything done around here with all these incompetent fools testing my patience.
The report lands in my inbox, flagged as urgent.
Payroll discrepancy. I open it, barely glancing at the details until one name snags my attention: Lucas Valeur.
Why is this here? Lucas runsValeur Real Estate,notTech. His paycheck shouldn’t have come anywhere near my department. Fuck, I hate mistakes.
I skim the report. It’s a failed transfer—a hefty sum.
Frowning, I look closer, and something twists in my gut. The destination account isn’t familiar, and the location catches my eye.Nairobi.
What the hell is Lucas doing with an account in Nairobi?
Suspicion prickles at the back of my neck. Theft? It’s the logical assumption. Someone could have hacked the payroll system, funneled part of his salary into a bogus account. But this is Lucas. He’d notice something like that.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I search for the name of the account. A second later, I’m staring at the result, an orphanage.
I open another browser tab and type the name into Google, expecting to find nothing. Instead, I’m greeted by a page filled with articles, photos, and updates about the place.
The photos load slowly, and I click through them, my confusion growing with every image. The orphanage isn’t just functional; it’s thriving. Newly painted walls. Solar panels gleaming under the sun. A classroom filled with kids poring over books.
I lean closer, my eyes narrowing at one photo. A group of children stand in front of a large tree, laughing and smiling atthe camera. And there, off to the side, half-hidden by the shadows of the branches?—
Lucas.
He’s standing with his arms crossed, a small boy hanging onto his shirt and another tugging at his hand. His face is tilted toward one kid, and he’s smiling. Not the smug, self-satisfied grin I’m used to, but something softer, almost unguarded.
My stomach twists as I stare at the image. It’s not theft.
I shift back in my chair; the pieces swirling in my head but refusing to fit together.
I call him.
The line rings twice before Lucas picks up. “Hi brother.”
