Switched Bride, True Luna - Chapter 45: Chapter 45

Logan
My father arrived without ceremony and strode in like he owned the place. He moved through the entry like a man checking his investment, not visiting his son.
We settled into the study. He declined tea. Declined whiskey. He wasn’t here for pleasantries.
“I’ve reviewed the most recent polling data,” he began, already thumbing through his tablet. “Public support in the northeast territories has softened. Your last visit there didn’t land the way you hoped.”
I nodded once. “The West Ridge Alphas are split. But we’re working on it.”
“Are you?” he asked, without looking up. “Or are you playing house with a Blackwood girl who still doesn’t have control of her Pack or her wolf?”
The words were sharp, but not new. My father rarely wasted time with subtlety when it came to his legacy.
I didn’t rise to it. “Emily has contributed significantly to our internal operations. She’s well-respected and fully competent.”
“You don’t need her competent,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. “You need her quiet.”
“I don’t want her to be quiet,” I replied, voice even.
He sighed, setting the tablet aside. “Son, listen carefully. Your mother made the mistake of letting sentiment soften her judgment. You’re not the only option for Alpha of Titanfang. This girl—whatever she is to you—she’s a liability.”
“She’s a partner.”
“She’s practically human,” he reminded me. “I’ve yet to be convinced she’s Luna material. Don’t let a pretty face and tight pu—”
“Father.” I’d spent my life under this man’s eye. I knew what it meant to flinch, and I knew if he finished that sentence I’d regret what came out of my mouth.
So, I said nothing more. Not at first. The words I wanted to say—about Emily’s fire, her sharp eyes, the way she held such care for others even when the world was cruel to her in ways we would never understand—they caught behind my teeth.
“She’s helping,” I said finally, though it sounded hollow.
My father stood. “You don’t get to be Alpha King by hoping a liability becomes an asset. You get there by eliminating doubt. I suggest you decide which path she’s on.”
Footsteps. A pause.
Emily stood just outside the threshold, eyes wide with surprise. How long had she been there?
She didn’t speak. Just gave me the smallest of nods and turned back the way she came, the ends of her loose hair brushing the doorframe.
My father didn’t acknowledge her at all. He simply straightened his coat. “I’ll have Reid review the remaining campaign funds. Make sure sentimentality hasn’t touched the budget.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click and the silence he left behind pulsed. I stood by the window, watching my father’s sleek black car disappear down the tree-lined road.
Emily had heard enough. Not all the words, maybe. But the tone.
And that, somehow, was worse.
Emily
I didn’t want to ask what all his father said. I had heard enough to get the point.
The air in that room had been heavy enough to bend steel. Cold, clipped, like Logan was thirteen again and trying not to disappoint his daddy.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard someone speak of me as a liability. But something about hearing it from a man who shared Logan’s blood made my hackles rise.
Maybe because I wanted Logan to defend me. Maybe because he hadn’t said my name. Or maybe I was just tired of pretending I didn’t care.
I stayed out of sight for the rest of the day. There were always documents to review—supply chain updates, Pack communications, trade projections. I let them pile around me like a fortress, nestled in the sitting room just off the main hall.
It was quiet there. Not private exactly, but quiet enough to think. Or at least try not to.
But I was distracted and found myself reading the same paragraph three times before the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence.
Logan hesitated in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he should enter his own space.
“I thought you might be here,” he said. His voice was low, unreadable.
“I’m working,” I replied, not looking up.
“I can see that.” He said.
A pause stretched between us, too thin to stand on but too wide to cross.
He stepped into the room and lowered himself onto the chair across from me. No tablet. No folders. Just him.
“I wanted to talk,” he said.
I flipped a page. “We’re talking.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Not about Pack logistics.”
I kept my gaze on the documents. “What else is there?”
“Emily.”
The way he said my name—soft, careful—was enough to split me open. But I didn’t let it show. I didn’t answer. Just turned another page.
Logan didn’t push but I felt his eyes on me, waiting for something but I didn’t what he expected.
“Did you hear what my father said?” he asked suddenly. The words were quiet, hesitant. I hadn’t known him long, bit that was unlike Logan.
I didn’t look at him, but the paper in my hands trembled slightly. “I heard enough,” I replied. “Enough to know where I stand.”
He exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked, finally meeting his gaze. “Because it sounded a lot like agreement.”
He shifted like he wanted to get closer but didn’t trust himself to move. I saw the tension in his jaw, the subtle twitch in his fingers like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for me or walk away.
“You matter more than he thinks,” he said.
“You say things like that when you’re about to walk away,” I murmured, barely above a whisper.
He stilled. “I’m not walking away.”
“You’re not staying either.”
A beat passed. He shifted closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, but he stopped short.
“I didn’t know how to defend you without making it worse,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know if you’d even want me to.”
The worst part? I did. I wanted it more than I cared to admit. But I said nothing.
If I looked up, if I let him see even a sliver of what I felt—disappointment, jealousy, that creeping sense of not being enough—I didn’t know if I’d be able to hide the rest.
This relationship was supposed to be strategic. Calculated. For our mutual benefit. That had been the deal.
But it wasn’t that simple anymore.
Not when his voice got quiet. Not when I could still feel the warmth of his hand from last night when he’d offered it at the gala, or the ghost of his breath when we almost kissed.
Not when I wanted him to fight for me—not as an asset, or a placeholder—but just for me.
And maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe I was asking too much of a man who never claimed to offer anything at all.
I felt the air shift when he stood. The leather of the chair creaked against his weight. Or against the weight of everything we hadn’t said.
“Good night,” he said quietly.
I turned another page as my answer.
Logan paused in the doorway for a second longer than he needed to. But he still left. And I didn’t ask him to stay.
Because I needed to remember that this wasn’t love. This was paperwork and politics. A contract signed in mutual need, not affection.
I could do this. I could be smart. Controlled. And I tried to believe that it meant I didn’t really care.
If I didn’t care, I couldn’t get hurt.