“Wait, you want to see something?” Oliver asked suddenly. He was beaming, excited to show me.

“Another time, sweetie,” I whispered, glancing down the hall toward Logan’s office.

“Oh, okay.” His smile fell. “Good-bye.” His forlorn expression broke my heart. He began shutting his door but I reached out, holding it open.

“All right, let me see.” I smiled and instantly his eyes brightened, perking up.

He grabbed my hand then whispered, “We have to be very quiet though. It’s a secret.”

I sighed, looking nervously around as he led the way down the hall opposite of Logan’s office.

“It’s in here,” Oliver whispered, pushing open the last door in the hall and flicking on the light.

With a quick look behind me, I tentatively stepped inside the room. My jaw dropped, taking in the sight of dozens of paintings stacked against the wall. They were mostly landscapes and a few portraits of Oliver as well as blank canvases. Two easels sat in the middle of the room, a metal stool next to them, positioned in front of a window. I walked farther inside, stopping at a large worktable which held rows of brushes, tubes of paints, and other miscellaneous supplies scattered on top.

“Here it is,” Oliver whispered, standing in the corner tugging at a white blanket covering a pile. 

I walked slowly toward him, my feet heavy with worry. Would Logan be upset that we were in here? It looked so personal. I noticed a pair of Logan’s jeans thrown over a chair in the corner. They were splattered with dark colors of paint and the image of him wearing them and nothing else, flashed before me. I couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like when he painted.

Oliver finally had the cloth removed from the painting, and dropped it to the floor. I blinked a couple times, clearing my mind as I stood beside Oliver.

“This is my mom,” he explained, his usual playful self fleeting as he gazed down at the portrait resting against the stack of other large canvases behind it.

The painting was a single portrait of the woman. It was extraordinary. She had long glossy-black hair that fell slightly around her shoulders. Her features were soft yet held a toughness to them, her smile barely visible. She looked serious almost sorrowing. I winced when I noticed her eyes—Oliver’s eyes.

“She’s pretty, huh?” he asked, looking up at me proudly.

“She’s beautiful.”

“What are you doing in here?” Logan snapped. “You know this isn’t a playroom!”

Oliver and I turned, but Logan’s gaze was on his son as if I didn’t exist.

“I wanted Cassie to see Mommy.”

Logan’s jaw ticked, nostrils flared. “Go to your room, now!”

Oliver looked at me, his face flushed bright-red, but before I could speak he burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably, his tiny hands covering his mouth as he ran from the room.

I stood there, flabbergasted and angry. Logan stomped toward me, his eyes filled with rage, and grabbed the sheet from the floor. Without even a glance at the painting, he threw the sheet back over it.

“I’ve told him countless times to stay out of here when I’m not with him!” Logan yelled, his back to me.

“You were a bit harsh,” I spoke up finally finding my voice, too angry to be afraid of him. “You need to go speak to him. He only wanted to show me her painting.”

Logan turned to face me, slowly tilting his head to the side, glaring at me. He inhaled a deep ragged breath, but as his eyes met mine, I watched his expression slowly begin to soften.

His shoulders slumped after a few moments and then he walked past me toward the window. The air was thick and uncomfortable as I waited for him to speak.

I was about to leave, nothing else left to say, when I heard him sigh.

“That was her, Oliver’s mother, Natasha, on the phone,” he grumbled. I stared at his back, watching his fists pump at his sides. “She wants me to bring Oliver to see her in London. Can you believe her? She hasn’t seen him since his first birthday!” A deep, throaty snarl came next, and as if he couldn’t bear to stand still, he began pacing the room.

I watched silently, waiting for him to continue. The anger and hurt radiated off him in waves. I shoved my filthy hands in my pockets and listened.

“She just left us one day. After everything, she just left! Ran off with some rich son of a bitch. Someone she thought could give her a better life.” He knocked over one of the easels and I jumped back, startled. “I’ll never look at her the same again. Oliver deserves better than that!”

“He does, but she is the only mother he has.” My voice cracked and I swallowed, clearing my throat. “You have to see it from his point of view.”

Logan stopped and turned, staring at me as though I said something absurd. “So what are you saying, Cassandra? I should take him to London to see her? Allow him to spend time with her, fall in love with her, just so she can leave him again?”

“No,” I said softly and shook my head, “you’re protecting your son, and you should continue doing what you think is right. Just remember, she is the only mother he will ever have. That’s all I am trying to say.”

“You don’t think I know that? It took me nearly two years before I could look at him and not see her. He’s my son, my…everything.” He looked down. “I’m aware he sneaks in here. I’ve stood in that doorway, as well as in our old home, and watched him sitting on the floor, staring at her painting. Sometimes he’ll tell her about his day. He has such hope that she’ll come back.” Logan sighed. He dropped his head down and ran his hands through his hair, locking them together behind his neck.

“He doesn’t even remember her,” he murmured. “Oliver romanticizes this idea of her appearing at our door and making us the perfect family.”

I watched him walk back to the grand window and stare out into the setting sun.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, wishing I could help in some way. “She called you and wanted to see him, that’s a step. Maybe one day you’ll be able to trust her with him again.”

“At one time I wanted to believe that. But now…it’s been so long. I can’t…” With his back to me, I found myself desperate to see his face. To comfort him in any way he’d allow.

“Do you still love her?” I asked boldly, crossing the room to stand beside him.

He remained silent, closing his eyes for a moment. His face looked pained and I regretted asking. I was trying to be a friend but a part of me wondered why he kept the painting.

Logan placed his hand on the wall, leaning against it. He looked tired. “I haven’t seen her in over three years.” He looked up at me. “A part of me wonders if I ever truly loved her to begin with or simply loved the idea of her. We were young and she was so vivacious.” His chest rumbled for a split second as he looked out the window in thought. “She gave me everything a young college kid could want. Sex, affection, and what I believed to be loyalty. She was beautiful, every guy I knew wanted her, but she was mine.”

He was quiet for a few moments and I stood there unsure what to say. Logan was in love with Oliver’s mother and she broke his heart. It explained so much.

“I knew she was unhappy. I could see it every morning that I left for work and when I’d return, eager to spend time with her and our son, she was always out. Oliver was left with the nannies more times than not. Natasha even refused to change him. Said she wasn’t a hands on type of mother. Thanks to my father entrusting me in the family business I was able to make a name for myself. By the time Oliver was born employing a nanny or two was manageable.”