Chapter 258
Stella's POV
Logan’s words hung in the humid air of the conservatory, the rain pattering against the glass panes like impatient fingers drumming on a tabletop, and I felt my chest tighten with the weight of everything unsaid between us. His eyes, those sharp, knowing eyes that had seen through my masks from the very beginning, held no mockery now, only a quiet vulnerability that made my heart ache as I set aside my grandmother’s faded journal, its pages whispering secrets of a life stolen too soon. I stood slowly, crossing the room to face him, the scent of damp earth and exotic orchids mingling with the faint trace of his cologne, and when I was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, I finally asked the question that had been clawing at my throat since Victor’s empire crumbled.
“Logan, I sent your mother to prison,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me, where guilt twisted like a knife because Vivian had been his flesh and blood, no matter how poisonous she’d turned out to be. “Will you hate me for that? Can you ever forgive what I did to her—to your family?”
He leaned in closer, his prosthetic leg silent under the tailored fabric, and for a moment, I thought he might pull away, but instead, his hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “Maybe a little at first,” he admitted, his voice low and rough, laced with the raw honesty that had always drawn me to him amid the chaos of Mellon lies. “But I know what she did, Stella—what she and Victor built on the bones of your family. She made her choices, and fuck, I’m glad someone finally held her accountable. I don’t hate you for it. I’m proud.”
Relief flooded me, warm and unexpected, but it tangled with the fear that this fragile thread between us might snap under the weight of my fractured life. He searched my face, his breath mingling with mine, and then he asked, “Do you still want to be with me? After everything?”
I swallowed hard, glancing toward the rain-streaked windows where shadows of the estate’s sprawling grounds blurred into the night, knowing full well the complications waiting beyond these walls. “If you can handle it,” I whispered, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against my skin. “If you can accept that there are other men around me—Ryder, Christian—they’re part of this mess too.”
Logan’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile, his eyes darkening with that mix of amusement and possession I’d come to crave. “I think I accepted that a long time ago,” he murmured, pulling me against him so our bodies aligned perfectly, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. “We’re all in this together, aren’t we? Fucked up, but real.”
From that night onward, the three of them—Ryder with his fierce loyalty, Christian with his unyielding control, and Logan with his sharp-edged tenderness—wove themselves into my life like threads in a tapestry I hadn’t known I was weaving. Christian was the first to propose marriage, cornering me in the sleek marble kitchen of The Spire one dawn, his blue eyes burning as he dropped to one knee with a velvet box that held a diamond so flawless it caught the rising sun like captured fire. “Marry me, Isabella,” he demanded, voice rough with need. “Make this official. I want the world to know you’re mine.”
Ryder burst in days later at the estate, his amber gaze stormy after overhearing whispers of Christian’s intent, shoving a simple gold band into my palm during a heated argument that dissolved into passion on the library rug. “Fuck his diamonds,” he growled against my neck. “I loved you first, Karina—Stella—whatever name you wore. Marry me, and I’ll spend every day proving it.”
Logan, ever the wildcard, ambushed me during a quiet dinner, slipping an emerald ring onto my finger amid sketches of my grandmother’s lost formulas, his laugh soft as he kissed my knuckles. “They can fight over the paperwork,” he said. “But you’re wearing my mark too.”
Our relationships started strange, a tangle of jealousy and overlapping dates where they’d glare across restaurant tables in Seattle’s finest spots, arguing over who got me for the weekend while I mediated with a mix of exasperation and thrill. Ryder would drag me to The Pit for underground fights, his hands possessive on my waist as Christian texted demands for updates; Christian scheduled power lunches at Aurea Springs Reserve, only for Logan to crash with takeout and sarcasm. But love eroded the edges of their rivalry, each man breaking through societal prejudices because what we had defied convention—three men who saw my scars, my kills, my ghosts, and chose me anyway. We crafted our own vows in a private ceremony on a misty morning, the four of us exchanging rings under an ancient oak.
They knelt before me that day, rings glinting—Christian’s diamond, Ryder’s gold, Logan’s emerald—and showered me with kisses that trailed from lips to throat. “My finger can’t hold three rings,” I laughed breathlessly, my body arching into their touches as hands roamed freely.
“Then we’ll stack them,” Christian murmured, nipping my earlobe.
“Or I’ll wear yours on a chain around my neck,” Ryder countered, his mouth hot on my collarbone.
Logan grinned, fingers teasing lower. “First one to knock you up wins naming rights—and the legal certificate.”