FREYA SINCLAIR
I felt him before I saw him. A shift in the room. A ripple of attention moving like a wave, drawing eyes toward the entrance on the opposite side of the hall. My stomach dropped.
Logan.
He walked in with effortless confidence, tall, polished, exactly as I remembered and exactly as I wished I didn’t. Jennie was on his arm, clinging to him like a badge of victory. She was dressed immaculately, glowing under the chandeliers, her smile bright enough to blind anyone who looked too closely. Rowan’s mother noticed them instantly. Her face lit up with undisguised delight.
“Oh,” she said, almost breathless, already turning in their direction. “That must be Logan.”
Jennie saw her coming and smiled wider, adjusting her grip on Logan’s arm as if to make a point. Rowan’s mother emb
