COMPULSION

TWO.

The boardroom was quiet. Too quiet.

Only the soft clink of a water glass being returned to its coaster interrupted the tension that wrapped around the space like a noose.

Logan sat at the head of the glass-topped table, flanked by the most influential shareholders of Legacy Realty. His phone buzzed again in his pocket—a news alert, no doubt—but he didn’t need to check it. He already knew what it said.

The story had broken.

And with it, the company’s stock was slipping.

"We brought you in because you were supposed to be the steady hand," came the voice of Harold Klein, the most senior investor on the board. His silver hair glinted under the recessed lights. “Not someone who'd allow this kind of scandal to jeopardize our reputation.”

“I didn’t allow anything,” Logan said tightly, fists clenched under the table. “The media has exaggerated the situation beyond recognition. There’s no criminal investigation. There’s no actual proof. It’s nothing but tabloid bait designed to tear down someone I care about.”

He didn’t say Bethany’s name. Not here. Not when their vultures were sharpening their teeth with every syllable he spoke.

“But the perception, Logan,” said Patricia Lantz, flipping her Montblanc pen between her fingers. “Legacy’s brand is built on exclusivity and trust. Our clients don’t want to see us associated with controversy. Especially the kind plastered across national media.”

Logan’s jaw ticked.

“She didn’t deserve this,” he said, quieter this time. “You’re reacting to noise, not facts. You know I’ve built this firm from the inside out. I’ve brought in half the clients you now treat like family friends.”

A beat passed before Harold leaned back, hands clasped over his stomach. “We believe in your leadership. But belief isn’t enough when we’re approaching the end of Q4 and clients are pulling out meetings.”

Patricia spoke again, sharper now. “We need a win. Something undeniable. Secure a new anchor client—someone big—before the fiscal year closes in two months, or...”

“Or what?” Logan snapped, lifting his gaze.

“Or we reconsider our involvement,” Harold said calmly. “Investors are nervous. The board is nervous. Clean this up, fast. Or they’ll take the exit route.”

The words hit harder than he let on. Legacy was his blood. His father’s shadow hung over this room, and Logan had spent his entire adult life proving he wasn’t just a spoiled successor. And now all of it—his career, his credibility, the woman he was falling for—was being threatened by someone else’s cruelty.

Juliette.

His teeth clenched.

“I’ll fix this,” he said, standing. “And not just for Legacy. But for me.”

No one argued.

They just watched him walk out, straight into the chaos waiting outside the glass doors.

~*~

The front door clicked shut behind her.

Bethany sighed, slipping off her heels with a low groan as the silence of the house settled around her. Or almost settled. She heard the jingle of keys and the faint creak of the garage door closing.

Logan.

Sure enough, seconds later, he stepped into the entryway, suit jacket draped over his arm and tension clinging to him like smoke. His jaw was set, expression unreadable as his eyes met hers.

“You just get in?” she asked gently.

He nodded, walking toward her and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Yeah.”

“Long day?”

“Something like that,” he murmured, brushing past her toward the kitchen.

Bethany stood still for a moment, watching him. Something was off. Logan usually greeted her with a teasing smile or a sarcastic one-liner. Tonight, he was quiet. Distant.

She followed him.

“I had a visitor at the office,” she said, trying not to sound accusatory. “Juliette.”

That stopped him.

Logan turned slowly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the kitchen island. “She showed up? What did she say?”

Bethany leaned against the counter. “The usual. A few threats. A few smug smiles. She gave me an envelope, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way she looked at me, like she knew something I didn’t. Like she’s not even close to being finished.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Logan said immediately, voice low, but sharp. “She doesn’t get to keep playing these games.”

Bethany’s chest tightened. “I don’t want you alone with her.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?”

Bethany hesitated. “I trust you, Logan. But Juliette’s manipulative. She knows how to twist things. And the press is already—”

“This isn’t about the press,” he interrupted, tone edging toward defensive. “This is about you not believing I can handle her.”

“No,” she said, more firmly. “This is about me not wanting to lose you to this mess. You storm in there, she records you, spins it into something it's not—suddenly you’re the villain. And after everything—”

He stepped toward her, gently but with fire behind his eyes. “You’re not going to lose me. Not to her. Not to anyone.”

Bethany swallowed hard, her voice small. “Then just promise me... you’ll be careful.”

Logan reached out, brushing his fingers along her cheek. “I promise.”

But his mind was already racing. He could feel the storm building—and he was more than ready to meet it head-on.

"I have to go practice for my press release in the morning. I will be in my office."

"Fine," Bethany said, "I have to work too."

Bethany waited until she heard Logan’s office door close.

The sound echoed down the hallway, final and heavy, before the house settled into a deceptive quiet. She stood in the middle of their bedroom for a long moment, arms folded around herself, heart pounding hard enough that she was sure it would give her away.

He was distracted. Busy. Fighting his own fires.

This was her moment—whether she wanted it or not.

She crossed the room and reached into the bottom drawer of the nightstand, fingers trembling as they brushed against the thick manila folder. Juliette’s smug smile flashed in her mind as Bethany pulled it free, the paper whispering softly as it slid out.

Her hands shook as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Slowly, reluctantly, she opened it.

At first, her mind refused to register what she was seeing. The images felt unreal, like something from a nightmare she hadn’t fully woken from. Blurry screenshots. Timestamped. Cropped just enough to be unmistakable without being explicit.

Her breath hitched.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

It was her.

Her body went cold as ice, panic rushing in so fast it made her dizzy. These weren’t posed photos. They weren’t consensual. The angles were wrong—hidden. Secretive. The kind that made it sickeningly clear she hadn’t known she was being filmed.

Her stomach turned violently.

She didn’t look long enough to identify the man.

She couldn’t.

The room felt too small, the walls closing in as the reality crashed down on her. Someone had recorded this. Someone had kept it. And somehow—somehow—Juliette had it.

How?

Her chest tightened painfully. Her mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. Old devices. Shared networks. A past she’d tried so hard to bury clawing its way back into the light.

She snapped the folder shut.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”

Logan couldn’t see this. Not now. Not ever. The thought of the look on his face—the rage, the guilt, the helplessness—made her stomach twist harder than the fear itself.

She slid the folder back into the drawer and shoved it closed, as if hiding it could erase it.

It couldn’t.

She pressed her palms to her thighs, breathing shallowly, forcing herself to think. Logan was already under pressure. His company. The board. The media. If this surfaced—if she surfaced—it wouldn’t just destroy her.

It would take him down with her.

“I won’t let that happen,” she said quietly, more to convince herself than anything.

Her phone sat on the bed beside her.

She stared at it.

Juliette’s name burned in her mind, smug and confident and cruel. Bethany knew what this was. A threat. A leash. And she hated—hated—that it was working.

Her hand hovered over the screen.

Logan was busy. Logan was safe. For now.

She picked up the phone.

Her thumb hesitated for half a second before pressing call.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Bethany,” Juliette’s voice purred through the line, smooth and satisfied. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

Bethany closed her eyes, forcing her voice to stay steady.

“What do you want?”

~*~

Juliette ran a manicured finger along the rim of her wine glass, the deep red liquid catching the dimmed light of her penthouse as her phone vibrated on the marble counter. She didn’t check the name—she already knew who it was. A slow, satisfied smile curled her lips as she pressed answer and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Bethany,” she purred, as if they were old friends catching up.

But her eyes were cold.

She let Bethany speak first, playing the part of the cool, composed woman while her other hand flipped lazily through a portfolio of Chase & Co.'s newest acquisitions—moves she had quietly influenced with whispered doubts and seeded rumors.

As Bethany talked, Juliette’s mind wandered. To Logan. To the way he used to lie in her bed, shirtless and arrogant, spewing half-formed ideas with the kind of confidence only men like him had—white, rich, and born to believe the world bent for them. She’d listen, nod, stroke his ego, then tweak and refine every half-baked thought until it became a viable strategy.

Chase & Co. was not his brainchild. Not entirely. She’d helped build it, bit by bit, one drunken confession and one whispered strategy at a time, all while he dismissed her as his beautiful distraction.

She’d been the brains behind the throne. And now?

Now she was being erased.

The divorce had gutted her. Her husband’s legal team was relentless, and what little power she held in her own firm was slipping by the day. She was losing everything. But Juliette knew one truth above all others: if she couldn’t win clean, she’d win dirty.

And Logan?

He had no idea what was coming.

Bethany’s voice trembled on the line, and Juliette grinned, not bothering to hide her delight. She let her finish, offered some false sympathy, then glanced down at her desk drawer—where another envelope sat sealed and waiting. More ammunition. A backup plan if Bethany didn’t fold fast enough.

She ended the call with a gentle “Think carefully, sweetheart,” then tapped the screen off and leaned back in her chair.

She’d played the long game before.

And this time, she intended to win.