The next forty-eight hours were an exercise to test my patience.
To survive a man like Logan McAllister, I had to let him believe he has successfully rewritten my DNA. I had to let him see the exact version of the woman he was rebuilding: soft, yielding, slightly fragile, and entirely dependent on his massive presence to anchor her world.
When the personal chef arrived on Thursday morning, I didn’t try to slip him a note. I didn't try to look him in the eye or convey a silent plea for help like anyone else in my situation would. I stood quietly by Logan’s side, my hand wrapped submissively around his thick bicep, letting him dictate my dietary plan to the chef as if I were a prized thoroughbred he was preparing for a race.
“High protein, clean fats,” Logan told the chef, his arm wrappi
