required no explanation.
He genuinely believed I’d disappear quietly into some cheap apartment and watch photos of his perfect European wedding while he celebrated his “new life.”
But he’d made one enormous mistake.
He assumed the house belonged to him.
It didn’t.
My father had owned the land long before I met Logan.
Years earlier, the property had been placed under a carefully designed legal arrangement.
Logan understood almost nothing about it.
I’d never encouraged him to investigate.
While he planned champagne celebrations on the Amalfi Coast, my lawyer prepared
