I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't even slam the bedroom door.
I just turned on my heel, walked down the long hallway to the guest suite, and pulled my black suitcase from the top shelf of the closet.
I packed in absolute silence. I folded three pairs of jeans, a handful of sweaters, and my favorite sneakers. I left behind the diamond necklaces Logan bought me after his championship wins. I left behind the designer dresses he made me wear to his endless charity galas.
At four in the morning, I dragged my luggage across the marble foyer. The wheels rumbled against the stone, breaking the heavy quiet of the house.
Three years. I had lived in this sprawling mansion for three years. I decorated every room. I hired the staff. I built a flawless fortress for him to retreat to after his grueling races.
Now, I was just a ghost walking out the front door.
The ride to the airport passed in a blur of streetlights and empty highways. By the time I reached the first-class check-in counter at LAX, my phone started to vibrate.
The screen lit up. *Logan*.
I stared at the glowing letters. I let it ring until it went to voicemail.
Ten seconds later, it buzzed again.
I stepped up to the counter and handed my passport to the ticket agent. "One way to New York, please."
"Checking any bags today, ma'am?" the agent asked, typing away on her keyboard.
"Just this one."
My phone vibrated a third time. The persistent buzzing rattled against the plastic counter.
I snatched the device, swiped the green icon, and brought it to my ear.
"Where the hell are you?" Logan demanded.
His voice held zero guilt. No hesitation. He sounded exactly like a man inconvenienced by a late coffee delivery.
"I'm at the airport," I said, my tone completely flat.
"LAX? What the hell are you doing there?"
"Leaving."
"Stop playing games, Claire. The team's season press conference is today. The entire PR department is going to fall apart if you aren't there to manage the media."
"They will have to manage themselves."
"Don't do this right now," he snapped. "You know how important today is. The sponsors are expecting you to smooth over the recent crash rumors. I need my manager."
"You need a manager?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Is that all I am to you?"
"You are my wife," Logan said, his patience clearly thinning. "And right now, you are acting like a child. Get a car and get back to the house."
"I'm your employee," I corrected him. "I book your flights, I manage your sponsors, I cover up your tantrums when you lose a race. And I clearly manage your mistresses, too."
"Don't use that word. Sabrina is a brand partner."
"Brand partners don't usually leave their lace underwear on my nightstand."
"You're making a massive deal out of nothing. We are building an empire, Claire. You want the mansion? You want the private jets? This is the cost."
"I never asked for the jets, Logan. I asked for a husband."
"Grow up. Get back here. The PR team is waiting."
"Tell the PR team I quit."
"You can't quit. You signed a contract."
Before I could tell him exactly where he could shove his contract, a sharp rustle of fabric echoed through the speaker.
"Claire? Is that you?"
The new voice was sickeningly sweet, pitched high and airy. Sabrina.
My fingernails dug into the plastic shell of my phone. "Put Logan back on."
"Oh, he's a little tied up right now," Sabrina purred, letting out a soft, mocking giggle. "He drank a whole lot last night. I just wanted to jump on the line and apologize for him."
"You are apologizing for my husband."
"Well, someone has to." Sabrina's tone shifted, losing the fake sweetness and sharpening into a smug drawl. "You stormed out so fast! We didn't even get to finish our little chat."
"There is no chat, Sabrina. Keep him."
"Listen, Claire," she cooed. "You really don't need to worry about him anymore. I know you've been working so hard managing his schedule, but I'm going to take such good care of him from now on. He needs a real woman. Someone who understands the spotlight."
"You understand how to lay on your back," I said, my voice ice-cold. "That doesn't take much talent."
Sabrina laughed, a high, grating sound. "It takes enough talent to keep him in bed while you're packing your bags."
A low, rumbling laugh echoed in the background. Logan.
The mattress groaned. The rhythmic creak of springs followed, loud and unmistakable through the phone's microphone.
"Fuck, Sabrina," Logan muttered. His voice was muffled but thick with lust. "Get over here."
"Hold on, baby," Sabrina whispered away from the receiver. "I'm talking to your wife."
"I don't care," Logan grunted. "I want you."
Then came the wet, heavy sound of skin slapping against skin.
They were doing it. Right now. While she held the phone to her ear.
My stomach twisted violently. They were still in the master bedroom. They were tangled in the custom white Egyptian cotton sheets I ordered from Italy. They were sweating all over the mattress I picked out for our anniversary.
"Logan, tell her," Sabrina urged, her breathing growing heavier.
"Tell her what?" he groaned. "God, you feel so fucking good."
"Tell her she doesn't need to come back."
"Claire, just stay at a hotel," Logan said, his voice straining with effort. "I've got too much racing pressure right now. I need this release. I just need to fuck her."
"See?" Sabrina panted directly into the microphone. "I'll handle him from now on. I won't let him be so stressed out. I'll do all the fucking work. You just lay back, baby."
More slapping. A harsh, guttural moan from Logan.
"Right there," Logan growled. "Wrap your legs around me. Don't stop."
"I'm yours," Sabrina moaned loudly. "Fuck me harder, Logan."
I didn't yell. I didn't curse them out. I didn't give them the satisfaction of hearing my voice break.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and tapped the red button. The line went completely dead, cutting off their vile performance.
I opened my settings, found Logan's contact, and hit 'Block Caller'.
I did the exact same thing for his private line. Then, I blocked Sabrina's number for good measure.
"Ma'am?"
I blinked, looking up at the ticket agent. She held out a printed boarding pass, her expression full of quiet pity. She had clearly heard the faint, obscene noises leaking from my phone speaker.
"Your gate is 42B," the agent said softly, sliding the ticket across the counter. "Have a safe flight to New York."
"Thank you."
I grabbed the paper ticket and my ID.
Overhead, a smooth, automated voice chimed through the massive terminal speakers.
"Attention passengers, Flight 804 to New York is now beginning the boarding process. Please proceed to your gate immediately."
I turned away from the check-in desk.
Beyond the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the airport, the Los Angeles sky bled from pitch black to a bruised, vibrant purple. The early morning sun crested over the distant mountains, casting a harsh, bright light across the tarmac.
I gripped the handle of my suitcase.
The wheels rolled smoothly over the polished floor. I kept my eyes fixed on the security checkpoint ahead. I walked with a steady pace, ignoring the exhaustion settling deep in my bones.
I wasn't going to look back. I wasn't going to stop my life for Logan Brooks ever again.
But as I handed my ticket to the TSA agent, my phone lit up with a new notification.
It wasn't a text from Logan.
It was an email from the Global Racing Federation.
And the subject line made my blood run entirely cold.
