Page 29 of Logan (The Valeur Billionaires #1)

Chapter Twenty-Three

LOGAN

“ P lease schedule a meeting with Congressman Smith for me,” I say into the sleek black speaker on my mahogany desk.

The secretary on the other end of the line mutters something, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping that she knows what she’s doing because I’m not in the mood to go through the tedious process of replacing another assistant.

I returned to the office a few days ago, and the nagging headache that had been my constant companion for months has come back with a vengeance, as if it had just been lying in wait in my leather executive chair, biding its time until the perfect moment to pounce on me and reclaim its usual place at the base of my skull.

I lean back in my chair, the supple leather creaking. If only people would do their damn jobs, I wouldn’t have to deal with this constant debilitating pain .

It’s a miracle I get anything done around here with all these incompetent fools testing my patience.

The report lands in my inbox, flagged as urgent.

Payroll discrepancy. I open it, barely glancing at the details until one name snags my attention: Lucas Valeur.

Why is this here? Lucas runs Valeur Real Estate, not Tech . His paycheck shouldn’t have come anywhere near my department. Fuck, I hate mistakes.

I skim the report. It’s a failed transfer—a hefty sum.

Frowning, I look closer, and something twists in my gut. The destination account isn’t familiar, and the location catches my eye. Nairobi.

What the hell is Lucas doing with an account in Nairobi?

Suspicion prickles at the back of my neck. Theft? It’s the logical assumption. Someone could have hacked the payroll system, funneled part of his salary into a bogus account. But this is Lucas. He’d notice something like that.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I search for the name of the account. A second later, I’m staring at the result, an orphanage.

I open another browser tab and type the name into Google, expecting to find nothing. Instead, I’m greeted by a page filled with articles, photos, and updates about the place.

The photos load slowly, and I click through them, my confusion growing with every image. The orphanage isn’t just functional; it’s thriving. Newly painted walls. Solar panels gleaming under the sun. A classroom filled with kids poring over books.

I lean closer, my eyes narrowing at one photo. A group of children stand in front of a large tree, laughing and smiling at the camera. And there, off to the side, half-hidden by the shadows of the branches?—

Lucas.

He’s standing with his arms crossed, a small boy hanging onto his shirt and another tugging at his hand. His face is tilted toward one kid, and he’s smiling. Not the smug, self-satisfied grin I’m used to, but something softer, almost unguarded.

My stomach twists as I stare at the image. It’s not theft.

I shift back in my chair; the pieces swirling in my head but refusing to fit together.

I call him.

The line rings twice before Lucas picks up. “Hi brother.”

“Your paycheck landed in my system by mistake.” I don’t bother with pleasantries.

There’s a pause. “What are you talking about?”

“Your salary.” I click back to the report on my screen. “A transfer failed. It bounced to me. Something about Nairobi. So I looked it up.” I take a breath. “Do you want to explain why you’ve been funneling half your paycheck to an orphanage?”

The silence on the other end stretches so long, I think he’s hung up.

Finally, he exhales sharply. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“No kidding. But here we are.” I lean forward, elbows on my desk.“You’ve been routing half your salary there for years , Lucas. What the hell is going on?”

“You checked the account?” His voice sharpens, edged with annoyance.

“Of course, I checked it. And I Googled the damn place.” My voice rises. “You’re in one of the photos, with kids hanging off you like you’re their favorite uncle. Care to explain?”

“Just send the transfer through,” he says, his tone clipped.

“No,” I snap. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. Why are you doing this? Why haven’t you told anyone?”

“Because it’s not about anyone else ,” Lucas snaps back. “It’s not about you, or me, or Dad. And it sure as hell isn’t something I want turned into a Valeur press release.”

I glance back at the screen, at Lucas in the photo, at the easy way the kids cling to him. “This isn’t you, Lucas,” I say, quieter now.

“Maybe it is,” he says, softer, almost to himself.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he sighs. “Look, just push the transfer through. And don’t tell Dad.”

I hesitate, my hand hovering over the mouse. “Fine,” I say. “But we’re not done here.”

The silence stretches long after the call ends. The photo of Lucas with the kids still open on my screen. I can’t reconcile the man in the picture with the one I’ve known my whole life. Lucas, the smooth-talking dealmaker, the playboy, the one who always keeps people at arm’s length.

Yet there he is, standing among those kids, a boy tugging at his sleeve while another sits perched on his shoulders, laughter in his eyes. It’s not just a one-off either. The transactions, the years of quiet support…

I lean back in my chair, the weight of it pressing down on me. Lucas mentioned none of this—not to me, not to anyone.

I pick up the phone again and stare at the call log, tempted to hit redial. I have questions, ones that gnaw at the edges of my mind, but for the first time, I don’t press .

Instead, I shoot him a text.

I want in too.

Three dots appear, then vanish. A full minute passes before he replies.

Lucas

Thanks. The kids will appreciate it.

It’s not much, but it’s enough.

I glance back at the orphanage’s website, at the smiling faces of the children, at Lucas’s unguarded expression.

Maybe I’ve been wrong about my brother. Maybe I was wrong about myself too.

The only time in the past year that my head didn’t hurt was the week I spent with Sloane. I lean my head back and close my eyes.

Sloane, her pink tongue darting out to catch a stray rivulet of melting ice cream.

Sloane, her hands flying as she expounds on her latest brilliant idea over a candlelit dinner, the glow of the flames dancing across her animated features.

Sloane, her face alight with childlike wonder as she takes in the grandeur of Buckingham Palace, the iconic red double-decker buses, the charm of a bookstore.

So excited, so alive, captivated by the little things I’ve long since stopped noticing, the things that can’t be bought or sold. The things that have nothing to do with my money, my status, or my power.

She’s like a breath of fresh air in my stagnant, suffocating world .

Attractive and sexy, yes, but also brilliant and funny and so wholly herself. I wanted her from the moment I laid eyes on her, wanted to bend her over my desk and fuck her until I purged this all-consuming desire from my system.

What I didn’t expect was that I would enjoy her company, would crave more than just her body. And I did want more. I still want more. I think I might have actual feelings for her.

I exhale. Of course, I would fall again—develop feelings for a woman who could never love me back. Story of my fucking life.

“You make it sound like I fell in love with you. Trust me, that will never happen.”

Her words echo in my head on a never-ending loop, closing in on me, making it hard to breathe, like a rope tightening around my neck.

She made it clear where things stand for her, reminding me yet again why I don’t let myself get attached, why my decision to keep everyone at arm’s length is the only sane choice for a man like me. I’m not the type people fall in love with. I never have been, and I never will be.

I withdrew her resignation letter before it reached its destination. No one knows about her little stunt. As far as everyone is concerned, she still works at Valeur and never left. She was my employee the entire time.

She’s supposed to return to the office today, and we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. I wince as I recall the way she slammed the door in my face, both literally and figuratively shutting me out without giving me a chance to explain.

She said she would pretend we don’t know each other, that nothing happened between us, and yet, I can’t help but wonder if she’ll actually do that. If she tries to hurt me, she could do a hell of a lot of damage.

Damage to the company, to my family’s reputation, to everything I’ve spent my entire adult life building.

My head gives a vicious throb as if in agreement with my dark thoughts. Gritting my teeth, I heave myself out of the chair and stalk out of my office, jabbing the elevator button with a bit more force than necessary.

I need to see her. Need to gauge her state of mind and try to do some damage control before this whole thing blows up in my face.

The elevator dings, and I step out onto the employee floor, stopping short in the middle of the bustling lobby. It occurs to me I don’t know where her desk is located. I’ve never bothered to find out before now.

Several harried-looking employees scurry past me, their eyes downcast, not daring to make eye contact with the infamous Logan Valeur. I almost let out a chuckle at their obvious fear.

Pathetic. I would respect them so much more if they had the backbone to look me in the eye, to speak their minds, and to propose new ideas instead of just following orders. If they dared to stand up to me every once in a while.

Sloane has never been afraid to challenge me. She’s always met my gaze head-on, unflinching, unafraid to tell me what she thinks of me and my bullshit.

Asking someone where she sits would be a bad idea. I rarely visit employees. I barely even come to this floor more than once or twice a year because Liam claims I intimidate the staff. Inquiring about her would draw unwanted attention.

I need Liam .

I turn to head toward his office but stop in my tracks.

It’s her.