10. Logan

Chapter 10

Logan

Morning brought no relief from the horrors of the previous night.

I’d never experienced this type of anxiety—this type of agony. Worrying that the Mercers might take away my son.

My mind raced as I climbed out of bed and looked out the window. Surrounded by Westbrook Meadows and my family’s vast wealth—none of it calmed me today.

Even the smallest, most remote chance that they’d be successful terrified me.

Mother had tried to reassure me endlessly since their departure, but I was still fuming.

I was furious with the Mercers. Furious with Veronica for her assistance with the publication of the scandalous article.

I walked over to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I’d only slept three hours, and I knew today was going to be hell at the hospital.

Part of me wanted to call out and take a personal day, but I knew it’d be a terrible idea since I was already on thin ice at the hospital after the article.

The strain of the custody threat had left me unable to enjoy a moment’s peace.

The estate was eerily quiet as I made my way downstairs to prepare a quick breakfast before heading to work. Sunlight spilled through the massive hallways, throwing long shadows across the floor.

I had hoped for a moment of solitude with breakfast, but as I stepped into the kitchen, there she was.

Mother sat at the head of the table, regal as ever. She sipped tea from a delicate porcelain cup. Her calm presence was both reassuring and maddening, considering the chaos occurring around us.

Without glancing at me, she spoke. “Good morning, darling! You look dreadful.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, heading directly toward the coffee.

She set her cup down gently, the slight clink unnerving me.

“You can thank me later,” she said. “Sit down, you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

I leaned against the counter instead of sitting. “It’s been… a lot, Mom. But I’m fine.”

She watched me carefully. “Fine? Darling, you’re a Westbrook. We don’t do fine. Sit. You need a strategy.”

I shook my head. “If this is about the Mercers, I’ve already made it clear: they’re not taking Henry.”

“Of course they’re not,” she said with a smile, her tone confident and calm.

Too calm.

She picked up her cup, sipping her tea. “But the way to win a war is to know when to show grace… and when to be ruthless.”

I frowned, having no idea where she was going with this. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“A family dinner tonight with the Mercers,” she said casually, as if it was the most natural suggestion in the world.

I nearly choked on my coffee, almost spitting it out. “You want me to have dinner with the Mercers?”

Mother nodded, obviously unfazed by my incredulity.

“Why would I do that? They’re trying to take my son away from me.”

She smiled faintly—the kind of smile that suggested she knew more than she was letting on. “Because, my darling, the best way to handle an enemy is to invite them into your home.”

“What?”

“Let them believe they’re in control,” she added, “while you hold all the cards.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“What cards?” I asked. “Do you have something you’re not telling me?”

She tilted her head, and her expression was completely unclear to me.

“Let’s just say,” she said sweetly, “by the time dinner is over, I intend to have this entire custody nonsense off the table.”

I raised an eyebrow, studying her expression for any clue I could extract.

“Mother…” I said, but my voice trailed off.

“Trust me, Logan. You’ll see.”

My inner voice demanded that I ask for more details. But the expression in her eyes—sharp and just a bit wicked—stopped me. Whatever my mother was planning was obviously already in motion. At this point, I was essentially just along for the ride.

I finally walked over and sank into the chair across from her. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, darling,” she said before taking another sip of her tea, “I always do.”

Later that day, I headed into work. But the tension from the previous night still lingered.

As I made my rounds at the hospital, I noticed some of my colleagues exchanging looks. There was a slight shift in the way they spoke to me.

I tried to convince myself that I was imagining things, but finally Dr. Evans approached me in the hallway.

“Logan,” he said, sounding slightly condescending, “I want to talk to you about that article. The board has seen it, and there’s concern about how it reflects on the hospital.”

I frowned. “The article was simply speculation. Gossip. Casey’s presence has nothing to do with my work here at the hospital.”

Dr. Evans’ tone shifted from condescending to patronizing. “I know you’re close to the situation, Logan. But you have to consider it from the board’s point of view. They think it’d be wise for you to distance yourself. At least publicly.”

Anger surged inside me, but I refused to show it in such a public setting.

Dr. Evan’s face was draped in a shadow of malevolence under the flickering fluorescent lights in the hallway. He nodded, patted me on the back, and turned to walk away.

If it was his goal to catch me off guard, he’d succeeded.

His tense words made me question how much I was risking professionally by keeping Casey in my life.