All Chapters of Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Viola McCoy My head is pounding. I can’t think straight as I glance between Logan and the man. I immediately rush to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. There’s a raging ache inside my skull. My head throbs relentlessly, and the spinning inside my mind is too much to handle. I feel like I’m drowning in the noise of my own thoughts. I lean over the sink, splashing cold water on my face, hoping it’ll snap me out of the haze. I stare at my reflection, wiping my face with the towel. But the moment my eyes close, I see it—“would you want to have your hands all over me?” My heart stops in my chest. I snap my eyes open, forcing myself to breathe. What the hell was that? Who did I say that to? Why can’t I remember? I hold my head in my hands, but the pain only intensifies. Minutes pass. Hours? I don’t know. Time feels irrelevant right now, just like my thoughts. I sit down on the bathroom floor, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to make sense of everything, but nothing seems to

Viola McCoy The ceiling hasn’t changed since the last time I looked at it. I let my eyes blur until it’s all white and meaningless again. The sun has long since set behind the thick curtains I never pulled open. I know I’m late for work. I know people are probably wondering where I am. But I just... can’t move.My body feels like it’s been dragged underwater and left there—heavy, slow, feverish. The rain that beat against me last night must’ve won. But worse than the cold lodged in my bones is the guilt in my chest. Logan kissed me. No. I kissed him too. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t stop him. I let it happen. And worse, I felt something.I roll over too fast and nearly fall off the bed. My forehead burns as I press it to the edge of my pillow. I feel like I’m being slowly cooked from the inside out, but the pit in my stomach is colder than anything. I kissed Logan. I let myself want him.There’s a light knock on the door. Julian?I lift my head slowly. He left me at the part

Viola McCoy An hour has passed. He said he was coming.I guess he isn’t and I’m relieved.Well… sort of. Maybe.I slide out of bed. My head is still heavy, like there’s a slow-burning fire behind my eyes. My skin feels clammy under my robe, the fever hasn’t quite broken. I shuffle toward the door and down the stairs, clutching the handrail. The house is oddly quiet and yet something smells… sweet. Pancakes.Julian’s pancakes.The scent hits me before I even make it to the kitchen. My stomach clenches. Hunger, sure. But mostly guilt. He’s trying. He’s being sweet, and somehow that’s making it worse.I pause just outside the kitchen and inhale sharply, steadying myself. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to look at him and lie. But I also don’t want to tell him the truth. Not when I’m still trying to untangle it myself.I step inside.He’s at the stove, a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he flips a pancake with too much force. It slaps the pan. He’s wearing his "domestic" fac

Viola McCoyI step back instinctively, my spine pressing into the cold metallic wall. My knees weaken. My voice dies in my throat. “Tell me it wasn’t a mistake,” he whispers. “Tell me you were sober, Vi.”For a moment, I think I might say something but the elevator jolts, almost making me fatal but he’s quick to grab my waist to steady me. But the movement doesn’t seem to budge him. He just wants my answer.Logan’s hands are still on my waist. One steadying me, the other just… there. Holding. His touch isn’t forceful, but it burns like it’s made of fire. I close my eyes for a second, just a second, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, sharp with the kind of masculinity that shouldn't make my knees weak right now, but absolutely does.He steps back half a foot, just enough for me to breathe. “Say it now. Tell me it meant nothing. Tell me you were drunk. Tell me I imagined every damn second of it.”I swallow. Hard. My throat feels like it’s coated in sandpaper. “I was

Viola McCoy For the rest of the day, my mind is a chaotic mess. I’m unable to think of anything besides the scene in the elevator. I tell myself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just tension—claustrophobia, proximity, fatigue. Anything but real. But it’s a lie, and I know it.Still, I manage to get through the rest of my workday without any more intrusive thoughts clawing at me. I focus on spreadsheets, keep my head down, smile at the interns like everything’s normal. Like I’m not completely unraveling on the inside.Julian hasn’t texted all day. Not a single word. But I’m sure he saw the missed calls, saw the timestamp when I got home, saw Logan’s car dropping me off. I wonder what’s running through his mind right now. I want to believe he’ll understand, but who am I kidding? Even I wouldn’t believe me.Even if I keep reassuring him that nothing happened, that it’s not what it looks like... deep down, I know it is what it looks like. Maybe worse.I drive home in silence, hand