As they walked back down the staircase, Jean adjusted her pace to match Logan’s long strides. He suddenly turned toward her without warning.
"Be ready by tomorrow evening," he said, casually but firmly.
Jean blinked. "For what?"
"We’re going to my parents’ place. They want to et you... properly this ti."
Jean stopped mid step. "Didn’t they already see ? You know, at the registration office when we signed that lovely contract of doom?"
Logan smirked, amused. "That wasn’t a eting. That was damage control. My mother wants dinner. My father wants answers."
Jean narrowed her eyes. "And what do you want?"
Logan paused, giving her a long look. "To introduce my wife properly."
Jean snorted. "Wow. Never thought I’d hear you say that without gagging."
"Shocking, right?" He shot her a dry glance, then added, "By the way, do you even know what family courtesy looks like?"
Jean rolled her eyes. "No, Logan, I grew up in the wild. Obviously not."
He cocked a brow at her sarcasm, then frowned as sothing clicked in his mory. "Right... you married to escape your family."
Her jaw tensed. "Don’t act like you’re doing a favor. You got sothing out of this too."
"True," Logan said, lifting a shoulder, "but if you’re planning to put on a show tomorrow, don’t bother. My parents are sharp. They’ll see right through fake smiles."
Jean’s lips curled in defiance. "Oh, I can be very persuasive when I want to be."
"I don’t doubt that." He stared at her, unreadable. "But just... be yourself. Don’t ntion the contract marriage. Other than that, do whatever you want."
Jean crossed her arms. "Fine. But if your mother throws a passive aggressive fit like a typical mother in law or your father tries to size up like a business deal, I won’t promise to smile through it."
"Fair enough." Logan nodded. "Just don’t kill anyone."
She gave him a wry grin. "No promises."
______________________________
The sky outside turned to a canvas of deep blue and fading gold. As promised, the mansion was finally quiet. The help had left, and the silence was oddly... comfortable.
Jean padded barefoot into the kitchen, following the faint sound of utensils and the irresistible aroma of sothing savory.
There he was... Logan Kingsley, heir to an empire, sleeves rolled up, chopping vegetables like a seasoned chef. His tall fra leaned slightly over the counter, movents smooth and focused.
Jean leaned against the doorfra, arms crossed. "Didn’t think you were the type to cook your own als."
Logan glanced up with a smirk. "I’m full of surprises."
She walked in slowly, cautious but curious. "What’s on the nu, Chef Kingsley?"
He gestured to the sizzling pan. "Spaghetti with a delicious sauce. Simple, no drama. Like how I wish tonight would go."
Jean sat on a stool by the island, watching him. "I don’t see a poison bottle anywhere. Impressive."
Logan chuckled. "Relax, Jean. I’m not poisoning you... yet."
She rolled her eyes. "Good to know. I’d hate to die from bland spaghetti."
"You wound ," he teased. "You haven’t even tasted it yet."
"I’m judging based on the cook, not the dish," she replied, chin propped on her hand as she studied him.
There was sothing disarming about the way he moved... confident, yet not arrogant. He didn’t speak unnecessarily. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to pry. It was strange... calming.
"You always watch people like this?" Logan asked without turning, his tone casual.
"Only when I don’t trust them," she said.
"Then I hope this pasta earns at least one percent of your trust."
Jean smirked. "Two, if the garlic’s not burnt."
"Deal."
The scent of garlic and olive oil filled the air as Logan plated the pasta and handed her a fork.
Jean took a tentative bite, surprised. "Okay... this isn’t bad."
Logan feigned offense. "Coming from you, that’s a Michelin star review."
A small smile played on Jean’s lips. She ate in silence for a while, letting the warmth of the food sink into her. It had been a long ti since soone cooked for her... voluntarily, at least.
Her eyes drifted to him again, noticing how fit he looked. The sleeves of his shirt stretched slightly over his forearms. His jawline, sharp. His confidence, unshaken.
She didn’t an to say it aloud, but it slipped. "You weren’t always like this, were you?"
Logan paused mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. A faint shadow crossed his features before he lowered his gaze.
"No," he said quietly. "I wasn’t."
Jean imdiately realized she had hit a nerve. "Sorry. I didn’t an to... it’s just I know how you looked but I always thought that once you changed you beca the sa person as others are when they are confident... you know with their look."
"It’s fine." Logan cut her off, his voice calm but distant. "I was... a different person back then. Overweight. Smart, but that didn’t count for much in a place like that. People only noticed what they could mock."
Jean sat straighter, eyes fixed on him.
"I got a scholarship to that elite university," he went on. "Didn’t co from money. I thought hard work would be enough. But I was just another outsider to them... an easy target. Fat. Poor. An eyesore in their perfect world."
The silence stretched between them, but Jean didn’t interrupt.
"I stopped eating properly. Started running at midnight when no one could see . Obsessed over every calorie, every number. Eventually... I looked like soone they’d accept. But by then, I had already stopped caring what they thought."
Jean’s throat felt tight. "They really did that to you?"
Logan t her eyes. "It changes you, Jean. When everyone treats you like a joke, you either break... or you beco soone they’ll never dare laugh at again."
Jean set her fork down slowly. "Is that why you’re always trying to prove yourself?"
He smiled faintly. "You make it sound like I’m on a mission."
"Aren’t you?" she whispered.
Their eyes held for a mont... vulnerable and raw.
I shouldn’t have asked him that.
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