All Chapters of Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Viola McCoy When I wake up, my head is pounding. A slow throb that pulses behind my eyes, making it feel like my skull is caught in a vice grip. I blink up at the ceiling, but the dim light filtering through the curtains stings. My body feels heavy, drenched in sweat, yet a deep chill rattles through me, making me shiver beneath the covers. Something is wrong. I force myself to move, to push off the blankets tangled around my legs. My limbs feel weak. A sluggish glance at the wall clock makes my breath catch. Almost 11 AM.I slept for that long? Dragging in a shaky breath, I attempt to sit up. I close my eyes, making the nausea subside before forcing my feet to the floor. One step. Then another. I slip into my flip-flops and push myself toward the mirror across the room. The moment I see my reflection, my stomach knots. My face is pale, almost ghostly. My eyes are red-rimmed and dull. I press a trembling hand to my forehead. I’m burning up. A fever. Of cour

Viola McCoy I had no idea Julian was going to come back early. He’d said he couldn’t focus on work because he knew I was mad at him so he just had to come home. I was in bed when he arrived and because I knew Logan would be back any moment, I told him about it.He didn’t overreact, he just said I should’ve called him. And now as I watch Logan leave, I feel a slight unease in my chest. I drop onto the couch because my body is still weak from the fever. Across the room, Julian gives me a long, assessing look before turning and heading upstairs. I exhale slowly. What is he thinking? Is he mad that Logan brought me soup? Or is he just pretending it doesn’t bother him? I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away, and grab the container from the table. I open the lid, and the rich aroma of chicken broth, garlic, and fresh herbs fills my nose. My stomach rumbles. Bonnie. It has to be Bonnie that made this. I take a slow bite, letting the flavors settle on my tongue. The brot

Logan Reynolds The view from my office does nothing to clear my head. I’ve been staring out of this damn window for the past hour, but all I see is him. Julian, standing in that living room, acting like I was some intruder in Viola’s life. And Viola? She just stood there. Quiet. Not a single word. I tell myself I don’t blame her. She was sick, barely able to stand, let alone deal with an argument. But that doesn’t stop the gnawing feeling in my chest. The kind that’s been sitting there since I walked out of that house. A knock on my office door pulls me out of my thoughts. Linda steps in, holding a file in one hand, her phone in the other. “We finally heard back from Cameron,” she says. “He’s ready to come back to Reynolds Publishing.” I lean back in my chair, my jaw tightening. Cameron. The same man who once pointed a gun at me and Viola in Paris. I should feel something about this. Maybe anger because of the stunt he pulled or maybe relief because I finally got hi

Viola McCoy I walk up to the counter, holding the small note between my fingers. My heart is still racing with something I don’t want to name yet. Excitement? No. I clear my throat, looking at the barista. He’s a man in his early forties with tired eyes and a name tag that reads * Ethan. He’s drying a mug with a towel, glancing up at me with a polite smile. “Hey,” I say, shifting slightly. “Did you, um, happen to see anyone sitting at that table by the window? My usual spot?” Ethan pauses, thinking. Then shakes his head. “Not that I noticed. We’ve been a little busy. Why? Something wrong?” I hesitate, glancing at the note again. The handwriting is neat but not familiar. “No, nothing’s wrong,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just curious.” He nods and goes back to his work. I sigh, turning back toward my table. I drop into my seat, staring at the note again. Romeo112. A fan. My first real-life fan. I run my thumb over the paper, reading the words again. It’s fl

Logan Reynolds The last few days have been shitty. I wake up too early, go to bed too late, and somewhere in between, I spend hours convincing myself that I don’t care. That I can keep my distance from Vi. That I can forget what I know. It’s not working. Ever since I found out she’s Shortstuff002, my head’s been a fucking mess. That book—the one that’s had me hooked, that’s kept me up at night, that made me feel something for the first time in years—was written by her. By the woman I left behind. And now? I can’t stop thinking about it. About her. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Because every morning, without fail, I wake up before the sun and drive to that café across from the office just to leave her a note. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because I know it’ll make her smile, even if she doesn’t know it’s me. Maybe because, this, being Romeo112, is the only way I can still have a piece of her. Or maybe I just need to feel close to her again, even if it’s from a fuck