Page 17

Seventeen

Ava

I was halfway through an afternoon coffee, the next day, when my phone buzzed with another text from Logan.

Logan

Fancy party Friday night. Black tie. You’re coming.

Ava

I still have the dress from the last gala. Works for me.

No. New dress. Check your inbox.

I groaned, already knowing what I’d find before I opened my email. Sure enough, there was a message from a high-end boutique downtown with the subject line “Exclusive Styling Appointment for Ava Carlisle” and Logan CC’d for good measure.

Rolling my eyes, I shot him back a reply.

The last one was perfect. I don’t need a new dress.

You’re a Hellblade WAG, baby. Gotta keep up appearances.

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or scream. That stupid nickname, why did it make my insides fucking melt. A Hellblade WAG? I don't remember this part of the arrangement, or was Logan just enjoying his newfound power to play stylist?

Ava

Fake girlfriend, remember? Fake being the key word here.

Which is why you can fake going along with this.

Duh.

Humor me.

My irritation softened slightly as I imagined him typing that last part, his signature smirk no doubt plastered across his face. It was infuriating, but I couldn’t deny he had a point. The more convincing we looked, the less scrutiny we’d face. Still, that didn’t mean I was thrilled about indulging his “high-earning WAG” fantasy. But he was still getting left on read.

When I showed up at the boutique later that day, the staff greeted me like royalty. They fussed over my measurements, brought out racks of gowns, and talked me into trying on things I never would’ve considered. One shimmering gold number caught my eye, its understated elegance setting it apart from the others. I had just decided on it when my phone buzzed again.

Logan

No gold. Red or black.

I was thinking blaze orange!

….

I groaned audibly, startling the saleswoman arranging accessories nearby. “Sorry,” I muttered, "Just heard from the king, red or black dresses only."

In the end, I settled on a black gown with a high slit and intricate beading along the bodice.

It was stunning, I had to admit.

***

The gala, hosted at the Art Institute of Chicago, beautifully merged the city’s culture and commitment to giving back. From the outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glimpse of the glowing lantern-lit atrium, where marble floors gleamed beneath vaulted ceilings. Inside, sculptures stood illuminated like silent guardians, adding a timeless elegance to the evening. The warm light spilled out into the night. Organized by the Greater Chicago Food Depository, the event was more than just a fundraiser. The GCFD, Chicago’s largest food bank, was a vital resource in the fight against hunger, providing meals, nutrition education, and job training to address the root causes of food insecurity. Tonight’s gala wasn’t just about raising money—it was about rallying the city’s most influential people to make a real difference.

Logan met me just outside the venue, stepping out of a sleek black SUV that looked like it cost more than my annual salary. He was dressed to kill in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, the lines of the fabric emphasizing every inch of his infuriatingly fit frame.

His gaze raked over me as I stepped onto the sidewalk, his smirk widening. “Great choice.”

“Funny,” I shot back, smoothing the fabric of my gown. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

He held out his arm, and I looped mine through his reluctantly, ignoring the flutter in my chest as we walked inside.

This was a job, and we were fake. I reminded myself.

Nothing more.

The tables were draped in deep navy linens, each adorned with sleek silver vases filled with white lilies and sprigs of eucalyptus, their minimalist elegance mirroring the sophistication of the crowd. A live quartet played softly from a corner of the room, their music weaving seamlessly into the hum of conversation and the delicate clinking of champagne flutes. Every detail seemed meticulously crafted, a testament to the balance of opulence and purpose the evening sought to achieve.

The room was alive with Chicago’s elite, prominent business figures, influential politicians, and even a handful of celebrities who glided through the space with practiced ease. Logan thrived in this environment, moving effortlessly from one conversation to the next, his charisma drawing people in like a magnet. I stayed at his side, offering polite smiles and carefully chosen words, but each interaction felt like walking a tightrope, the pressure to maintain appearances never far from my mind.

We’d just settled at our table when it happened. A woman I vaguely recognized, she worked for a local tabloid—cornered me near the champagne fountain.

“You’re Ava Carlisle, right?” she asked, her tone sharp. Her auburn hair was pulled into an impossibly tight bun, and her eyes gleamed with something close to malice.

“That’s me,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.

“Your pieces on the Hellblades have been... interesting,” she said, her words dripping with insinuation. “But you’ve been curiously silent on the betting allegations. Any comment on why that is?”

My stomach dropped. “I report what I can verify, facts only” I said evenly. “Speculation isn’t my style.”

Her smirk deepened, as if she’d been waiting for that response. “Or maybe you’re too close to your source. Bennett’s got quite the reputation, think that’s clouding your judgment?”

Heat crept up my neck, but before I could respond, Logan appeared beside me like a shadow, his hand resting lightly on my back.

“Everything alright here?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with warning.

“Just having a little chat,” the reporter said, though her expression faltered slightly under his gaze.

Logan’s smile was all teeth, sharp and dangerous. “If you’re looking for gossip, might I suggest the dessert table? They’re serving some excellent crème br?lée.”

The woman’s lips thinned, but she stepped back, clearly not wanting to take him on. Logan waited until she disappeared into the crowd before turning to me, his eyes scanning my face.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now.

I nodded, though my heart was still racing. “Thanks for that.”

“Anytime,” he said, his hand lingering on my back a second longer than necessary before dropping away.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Logan was his usual charismatic self, charming everyone from the mayor to the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. But every now and then, I caught him glancing my way, his gaze unreadable.

As we left the gala, a heavy tension lingered between us. I was grateful for Logan stepping in, but his intervention left me feeling exposed, like he’d seen something I wasn’t ready to face—not with him, not with myself. By the time we reached his SUV, the weight of the night was palpable. Logan’s expression was unreadable as he opened the door, and I slid inside.

He climbed in, shutting the door with more force than necessary, and exhaled sharply. “Alright, enough of this.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Enough of what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala venue through the rearview mirror. “The small talk, the fake smiles, the overpriced champagne. I’m done.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You realize you’re the one who dragged me here, right?”

“Yeah, and now I’m dragging you somewhere better.”

He grinned, suddenly looking more like the Logan I’d met at the bar weeks ago—irreverent, spontaneous, and maddeningly charming.