Chapter 4 MY FANTASY

LOGAN GARRISON'S POV

"Take down the rumors in the next thirty minutes. I'll deal with my parents," I said to Martin as I walked toward my office.

The staff greeted me on the way in, but they barely registered. Martin trailed behind, already on his phone, barking orders at the media team to scrub every picture of Susanne and me from the internet. I shut my office door, crossed the room, and dropped into my chair, spinning slowly as the skyline stretched before me in glass and steel.

Susanne had finally crossed the line-digging up old videos, posting memories like weapons, all because I refused to come home. Refused to play house.

I turned just as my secretary stepped in.

"Sir, the gifts have been delivered to Miss Belinda," he said.

My thoughts derailed instantly.

"And her father's name?" I asked, my voice steady even as my mind tilted back to her-uninvited, persistent. She had a way of owning my thoughts without asking permission.

"Chapman, sir. Belinda Chapman."

"Alright. You can go."

He left. Martin was still pacing, still making calls, still cleaning up my mess. Meanwhile, a slow smile curved my lips at the thought of her-her face, her lips... fuck, her skin. I wondered what her reaction would be when she opened those gifts. I hadn't sent them to impress her. I'd sent them because she'd taken up space in my head. My thoughts. My fantasies.

I wanted to see her again. In daylight. Wanted to watch her roll her eyes as she moaned my name like she hated how much she needed to say it.

Hell.

"Logan." Martin finally turned to me. "Are you seriously smiling right now?"

His exaggeration was priceless. I laughed.

"Am I supposed to mourn the fact that my ex doesn't know how to leave?" I asked, lips curling.

Susanne loved to be handled, controlled, indulged-and I knew exactly how relentless she could be. But I was done. Completely done. With her drama. With her obsession.

"Can you at least talk to her?" Martin pressed. "She's causing a lot of trouble."

I laughed again. "You've been jobless for too long."

He chuckled. "I want other jobs." He dropped onto the couch, scrolling through his phone. Then he looked up. "So... who's Belinda Chapman?"

I tapped my fingers against the desk, my smile widening despite myself.

"Someone."

He frowned. "Another fantasy of yours."

I said nothing.

"I hope this one lasts longer than a week," he muttered, returning to his phone.

I leaned back in my chair, turning to face the city again. Her slim waist. The way it curved into those perfectly shaped hips. If she was going to be a fantasy, then I wanted this one close-dangerously close.

I closed my eyes, remembering how slick she'd been, how responsive. Soft and needy, yet all grown. I imagined her crying on my cock again-then wondered, darkly, if it would turn me on even more if she sobbed my name into my ear while I fucked her apart.

"Boss."

Martin again.

"The board is waiting."

I stood, straightened my suit-but paused. Work suddenly felt insignificant. My mind was already planning when I'd see her next.

Life rarely followed a plan. Not mine, anyway.

Susanne was determined to make my life miserable, and maybe sleeping with her when she came crawling back had been a mistake. I wasn't built for marriage. My parents didn't help either. They wanted a daughter-in-law, and Susanne had everything they valued-money, persistence, and just enough manipulation to make herself impossible to ignore.

My days blurred together: meetings, calls, contracts, crises. And always my parents-pushing, demanding, reminding me it was time to settle down.

I sat in the upper lounge with Martin during a meeting he'd forcefully arranged with the Georges. I listened half-heartedly as a representative droned on about supply rates.

Then I glanced down toward the reception area.

And that was all it took.

Belinda.

She walked in wearing a simple, body-hugging dress, fluffy slippers, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Effortless. Fresh. Stunning in a way that didn't beg for attention-but commanded it anyway.

She took a seat, crossed her legs, ordered a drink, and flipped open a magazine like she belonged there. Like the room had been waiting for her.

My chest tightened. A slow smirk tugged at my mouth.

She was still in my head. Through all the chaos, she never left.

"Sir?" the representative said, snapping me back.

I blinked. Martin was staring at me, confused.

Right. The meeting.

I skimmed the contract, signed it, and handed it back. "Thank you. You can leave."

The moment they did, I turned back-instinctively-just to make sure she hadn't vanished.

"Is that her?" Martin asked, following my gaze.

"Her?" I murmured.

He stepped closer to the railing, scanning the lounge. "Which one? There are like five women down there."

Only then did I notice. But my eyes found her immediately. Always her.

"You make me sound ridiculous," I muttered, watching her lift her drink to her lips. The memory of her taste hit me hard.

I wasn't forgetting her. Not anytime soon.

"Anyway," Martin said quietly, "Mom called."

My jaw tightened. "And?"

"Susanne is pregnant."

I turned sharply.

"And?"

He stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "And, Logan-you're going to be a father."

The noise around me faded. Everything slowed.

All I could see was the woman downstairs-the one who made me feel something real for the first time in years...

...while another woman carried my child.

BELINDA CHAPMAN'S POV

I think I'm restless.

No-I know I am. And somehow, impossibly, he's the reason.

Since that night by the pool, I haven't seen him again. Not once. It's as though he vanished the moment dawn arrived, leaving only evidence behind. His gifts remain untouched in my room-neatly arranged, unopened-while the flowers he sent sit dying slowly in their vases, petals curling inward as if even they've grown tired of waiting. A quiet accusation. A reminder of something I never acknowledged.

I didn't even say thank you.

Earlier today, I found myself standing outside Room 001, heart thudding with a foolish hope I didn't bother to name. I stepped into the elevator, pressed the button-and was denied. The same elevator that had granted me access before now refused me without explanation. The doors slid shut with a finality that felt deliberate.

Personal.

Maybe he doesn't like me after all.

But then... why the gifts? Why the flowers?

The questions twisted endlessly in my head until I couldn't stay still anymore. I paced my room. Walked the hallway. Drifted from corner to corner like a ghost haunting my own unease, half-hoping fate might intervene and place him directly in my path. I didn't even know what I would say if that happened.

I only knew I wanted to see him.

I needed to.

But I didn't.

Day four arrived and passed without a trace of him. No chance encounter. No fleeting glance. Nothing. By then, doubt had begun to settle deep in my chest. Maybe he'd already checked out. Maybe whatever spark I'd felt that night had been nothing more than imagination dressed up as longing.

I eventually ended up in the open lounge, sinking into a chair with a random magazine I had no intention of reading-just something to occupy my hands. I'd come here to reset my life. To breathe. To escape expectations. Yet one stranger had undone all of that with a single night and a quiet intensity I couldn't forget.

My thoughts kept reaching for him, betraying every reason I'd come here in the first place.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I couldn't even remember the last time I'd truly thought about William.

My phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

My mother.

Wedding gowns. Cake samples. Color palettes. Passive, aggressive complaints about how I'd abandoned her to plan my wedding alone.

Our wedding.

How I wished I could tell her the truth-that I didn't want it anymore. That I wasn't sure I'd ever truly wanted it at all. That the woman who had said yes to William felt like a stranger now, someone I no longer recognized.

How I wished I were brave enough to tell her the ugliest truth of all.

That William was dating her two daughters.

The only children she had.

My stomach turned. I dropped the magazine, appetite gone, and picked up my phone again-this time with a different purpose. I searched Logan's name on Instagram, desperate for anything. A face. A post. Proof that he existed beyond my thoughts and unanswered questions.

Instead, my sister's profile appeared.

Melinda Chapman.

The photo loaded slowly, each second stretching painfully, and then my breath caught in my throat. Her hand was intertwined with a man's-his hand. I would recognize it anywhere.

William's.

I was about to scroll past when the caption registered.

Celebrating our fifth-year anniversary.

Everything inside me froze.

Five years.

The number echoed in my head, hollow and cruel. Five years meant every bouquet delivered to her. Every gift signed from your man. Every soft smile she wore whenever she spoke about him-it had always been William.

William, whom I had worked myself hollow for.

William, whom I had defended without question.

William, whom I was supposed to marry.

A broken sound escaped my throat, something between a laugh and a sob, as the truth finally settled in my chest like a weight I couldn't lift. God-how blind I'd been.

I stood abruptly and made my way back to my room, telling myself I wasn't crying. That I felt nothing. That this didn't hurt.

But my vision blurred. My thoughts fractured. My chest ached with a pain that felt sharp and suffocating.

Inside the elevator, I pressed my floor number, barely registering that someone else had stepped in. I leaned against the door, wiping my cheeks again and again as the tears refused to stop, betraying every lie I told myself.

Just stop, I begged silently. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve me.

"Are you okay?"

The voice came from behind me.

Logan.

The sound of his voice shattered whatever fragile wall I had left standing. I turned toward him, but I couldn't really see anymore-the tears rushed out fully now, unstoppable.

He didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate. He simply stepped forward and pulled me into his arms.

And I broke.

I cried into his chest, everything pouring out without words-betrayal, humiliation, heartbreak, exhaustion. All of it. He held me as though it was the most natural thing in the world, as though I belonged there.

"It's okay," he murmured softly, over and over. "It's alright."

And somehow... it was.

I felt safe. Truly safe. In the arms of someone whose first name was all I knew. This wasn't William. This wasn't family. This wasn't expectation or obligation.

This was comfort.

This was peace.