Page 50 of The Fake Affair

GHOSTS

Logan

The bottle shatters against my Chelsea penthouse wall, whiskey staining the pristine paint. I stare at the amber liquid dripping down white walls and remember a different bottle, a different wall, a different broken man.

My father’s study smelled like this—alcohol and despair. Three days after we buried my mother, I found him there, surrounded by her photos. He didn’t notice me in the doorway, nor did he hear me calling his name. Just kept staring at her face while Audrey cried in her crib down the hall.

The nanny tried to take Audrey that first night after Mum died, but her screams could be heard throughout the entire Fraser estate. She only quieted in my arms, tiny fingers gripping my shirt. One by one, the staff gave up trying.

“Young Master Fraser,” our housekeeper pleaded, “let us help.”

But I’d seen how Audrey rejected everyone else. How she’d cry until I came, as if she knew, even as a newborn, that I was all she had left.

Dad had retreated to his study, leaving the running of our house to servants who didn’t know what to do with a grieving seven-year-old who refused to let anyone else care for his sister.

Mum had planned everything about Audrey’s arrival—the hand-painted nursery with its imported Italian furniture, the wardrobe of custom baby clothes, and the Swiss nanny she’d carefully selected.

She even left letters, one for each of Audrey’s birthdays. The following week, I found them in Dad’s study, hidden behind his collection of rare whiskeys.

I read them all, memorizing our mother’s words so I could share them with Audrey later. Then I hid them where Dad couldn’t find them to destroy in one of his drunken rages that were becoming more frequent.

Our wealth meant nothing when Dad started missing board meetings. The family business—generations of investment and expansion—began to show cracks. Once I turned fourteen, I learned to forge his signature on documents, my childish hand practicing for hours until it matched his aristocratic scrawl.

School became both an escape and a challenge. The teachers at our exclusive prep school stopped asking why Dad never attended functions.

“Master Logan is so good with Miss Audrey,” the staff would whisper, watching me get her ready for school. They didn’t know I spent hours watching videos to learn how to style her hair because she’d scream if anyone else touched her.

The worst nights were when Dad tried to be better. He’d appear at dinner in the formal dining room, sober and full of promises. He would help Audrey with her French lessons and ask about my studies. But it never lasted. Something would remind him of Mum—Audrey’s laugh, a piece of music from the conservatory—and he’d disappear into his study again.

The family fortune began to bleed away, so I learned about stock portfolios, business acquisitions, and assets and liabilities.

Dad never knew I’d started managing what was left of our money by seventeen, redirecting funds from failing ventures, trying to salvage what I could of our heritage while he drank away generations of investment.

The day Audrey started asking about Mum was the worst. She was four, just old enough to notice other children at her private school had mothers at pickup. I found her in the nursery, still decorated with its hand-painted murals, clutching one of Mum’s letters.

“Did she not want us?” she’d asked, too young to understand death but old enough to feel abandoned.

I told her everything I could remember—how Mum spoke four languages, how she insisted on making our breakfast herself despite having a full kitchen staff, how she’d sneak into the kitchen at midnight for strawberry ice cream while pregnant with Audrey.

College applications were my secret rebellion. Edinburgh University offered prestige along with its scholarship, and Mum had always wanted us to strengthen our Scottish roots. The acceptance letter came while Dad was in another private rehabilitation facility—his third that year.

I almost didn’t go. How could I leave Audrey? But Mrs. Campbell promised to watch her.

But the hardest part wasn’t the responsibility. It was watching Audrey’s face fall every time Dad missed another dance recital or school play, watching her learn not to expect him the way I had.

“You’re just like him,”Audrey’s text echoes in my head now. Not from childhood but from hours ago.“Running away when things get hard.”

She’s right.

I’ve spent my life rebuilding what our father destroyed, reclaiming the Fraser name deal by deal, but here I am—hiding in an empty penthouse while someone I love needs me. They’re different mansions, but still the same cowardice.

“You’ve got some nerve.”

I don’t need to turn to know Audrey’s standing in my doorway. Only she has the security code for this place.

“How did she take it?” My voice is rough from whiskey.

“How do you think?” Audrey’s heels click across the hardwood. “She’s gone, Logan.”

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