Page 42 of My Destiny

He pulls up outside my house, and I remove my seatbelt. “Thank you again for everything,” I say, reaching for the door handle.

“Let me get that for you.” Before I have a chance to protest, he removes his own seatbelt and exits the car. I find his gentlemanly ways very sweet, just like him. He opens my door and extends his hand to me. “Would you mind if I at least came inside and checked that everything is okay?”

When I see the pleading look on his face, I can’t possibly deny him. “I’d like that, thank you.”

He’s smiling as he grabs my bag out of the boot, the last thing I want to do is hurt him.

When we reach the door, he places my bag on the porch, as I rummage around inside my handbag for the keys. As I go to place the key in the lock, I notice the door is slightly ajar. “I remember locking this before I left,” I say.

“I do too. Step aside.”

“Hold on,” I say, grabbing hold of his arm. “What if someone’s still inside?”

“Wait out here.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police first?”

Dismissing me, he opens the door and enters. My heart is beating out of my chest. I can’t let him face this alone, so I follow him in. He only makes it a few steps inside before he stills. I’m not expecting it, so I crash straight into his back.

He spins around to face me. “I told you to wait outside.”

Stepping around him, I gasp when I see the state of my living room. The furniture is upturned, the picture frames that were hanging on the wall now lay broken on the floor. But what makes my blood run cold is the large words ‘WHORE and SLUT’ that are spray-painted in red on the walls.

Before I even realise what’s happening, I’m being ushered outside by Logan. The moment we reach the porch, he gathers me in his arms. Tears sting my eyes, and I can feel my body trembling as he holds me tight.

When he finally lets me go, he cradles my face in his hands. “Are you okay?” I just nod, because I’m unable to speak. “I’m going to call the police.” He takes a few steps away from me, and although I can still hear him talking, nothing he says registers. My mind is spinning, and my gaze keeps flicking back to the door. When he ends the call, he slides his phone back into his pocket, before joining me once more. “They’re on their way. I’m going to look around inside.”

“Don’t,” I say, suddenly feeling terrified. “What if someone is still in there?”

“I can handle myself.” He grips my upper arms and kisses my forehead. “Don’t move from this spot.”

“But…”

“I mean it, Brooke.”

“Here, drink this,” Logan says, handing me a glass containing amber liquid. “It will help calm your nerves.”

“Thank you.” He sits beside me at the breakfast bar in his penthouse.

After the police took photos and fingerprints from the scene, Logan brought me back here. This time I didn’t even mention a hotel. It’s one thing having a rock thrown through your window, or a threatening text sent, but knowing someone invaded my personal space, my sanctuary, is on a whole new level.

It was obvious I could no longer stay in my place, so the police allowed me to gather a few things from my bedroom, but even that wasn’t spared. The contents of my drawers and wardrobe were strewn everywhere, but the most troubling part was seeing my now-unmade bed and the dent that sat in the middle of the pillow from where a head had lay on it. It wasn’t mine. Whoever was in my house was also in my bed. It spooked me.

I’m so grateful Logan insisted on taking me home now, since I would’ve hated to face all this on my own.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, placing his hand on my leg. He’s been so kind and gentle with me. “Jill left some food in the fridge for us, I can heat it up if you’d like.”

“Okay,” I say, shrugging. The last thing I want is food, but I know he won’t eat unless I do.

My stance on us hasn’t changed. I still need to keep my distance, but at the moment I’m feeling clingy and scared to be alone.

He doesn’t say much during dinner, but I can feel his eyes on me as I push the food around on the plate. “Try and eat something,” he pleads. “You need to keep up your strength.” For his sake, I force a small amount down, but when I eventually slide my plate away, he doesn’t protest. “I’ll clean up if you want to go and have a shower or lie down.”

“I’ll help.” He eyes me as I pick up the plates and walk into the kitchen. Can he sense my unwillingness to leave his side?

“I have a bit of work to do in the office,” he says once the plates are rinsed and packed in the dishwasher.

“You’re leaving?” My question comes out more panicked than planned.