CHAPTER 177: A MOTHER’S UNBIASED LOVE

Jean’s heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

She looked down... Logan’s oversized white shirt draped over her bare thighs. No pants. No shorts. Just his shirt. A literal walk-of-shame look. Fantastic.

Ugh why did I think of wearing just his shirt this morning! This is his influence on her! Bad bad!!

Logan moved fast, coming to stand in front of her like a shield.

"You go to the bedroom. Now."

"It’s too late!" Jean whispered harshly. "They’re coming down the hallway!"

Just as she tried to duck behind the kitchen island, in walked Martha and Jared Kingsley, with Hannah trailing right behind.

Everything froze for a heartbeat.

Jared blinked. Martha’s smile stiffened. Hannah’s jaw dropped.

Jean stood there, caught red handed... hair tousled, lips still slightly swollen from Logan’s kisses, and Logan’s shirt hanging off one bare shoulder.

"Oh," Martha finally said, her tone somewhere between amused and scandalized.

"Well," Jared cleared his throat. "Breakfast looks... intimate."

Jean flushed scarlet. She opened her mouth to explain... except what

could she possibly say? That she had just made Logan eggs in his shirt after a night of toe curling semi-intimacy?

Logan, however, stepped forward like it was a boardroom presentation.

"We weren’t expecting visitors. And Jean’s staying home to recover. So, please don’t read into the wardrobe situation."

"Oh, honey," Martha said, with an exasperated sigh. "We’ve all been young once."

"Technically, you’re still young," Hannah added with a grin. "And clearly in love."

"I’m going to die," Jean muttered under her breath.

"Nope," Logan said dryly. "We live. We face this. With dignity."

Martha gave a dramatic sigh and set the box of pastries on the table.

"Next time, maybe warn us. Or at least make sure she’s wearing pants."

Jean squeaked and bolted toward the bedroom, muttering apologies and bumping into a chair on her way out.

Hannah laughed until she wheezed.

Logan just pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well," Jared said, patting his son’s shoulder. "At least we know it’s a real marriage."

____________________________

Jean changed into a simple beige top and jeans, finally feeling a sliver of dignity return after the morning’s mortifying walk-in. She was just brushing her damp hair when there was a gentle knock at the bedroom door.

"Jean, sweetheart?" Martha’s voice was soft. "Can I come in?"

Jean opened the door, still flustered. "Yes... of course. I’m so sorry about earlier, I..."

"Oh, don’t apologize." Martha stepped inside, waving it off. "Logan’s grown. And you... you’ve been through something, haven’t you?"

Jean stiffened. The warmth in Martha’s voice undid her more than any harsh tone could have.

Martha walked to the edge of the bed and sat, patting the spot beside her.

"I asked Hannah what’s going on. She mentioned Emma is in a coma. But I can tell it’s more than that. You look like you’ve been carrying too much... for far too long."

Jean sat beside her. She wanted to deny it. Brush it off. Smile politely and say it’s fine.

But she couldn’t lie to Martha.

She turned, and the slight tilt of her top revealed the faint, reddish-pink burn that trailed near her shoulder and collarbone... a mark she hadn’t noticed peeking through.

Martha’s expression changed immediately. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes become glassy.

"Jean." Her voice was gentle, but firm. "Did Logan do that to you?"

Jean’s eyes widened in horror. "What? No! God, no, he would never."

Martha held her gaze. "You don’t have to protect him. I love my son dearly, but I wouldn’t stand by him if he ever laid a hand on his wife."

Jean was silent for a beat. The lump in her throat swelled.

"No one’s ever asked me that," she whispered. "Not even when I had worse bruises than this."

Martha’s brows creased. "What happened?"

Jean looked down at her hands. "My family happened. That burn... wasn’t an accident. It was my brother. He tried to hurt me."

Silence.

Martha slowly reached out and held Jean’s hand.

"You don’t have to tell me more. But I want you to know that this house? This family?" She nodded toward the door. "We’re not like them. And Logan... he may not show it the way you expect, but he’d set the world on fire to protect you."

Jean’s eyes stung.

"You suspected your son first," she said, her voice breaking a little. "That... that says a lot."

Martha squeezed her hand. "Because I believe that even those we love most are capable of making mistakes. And I never want to be a mother who turns a blind eye. Especially not when someone’s hurting."

Jean thought of Darla... how her mother defended Alex’s violence, his cruelty, his sins... as if the family name was worth more than someone’s life.

"You’re nothing like Darla, my mother," Jean said quietly.

Martha gave her a small smile. "Then maybe we can help you forget what love is not. And remind you of what it can be."

Jean leaned in... just slightly... and let her head rest on Martha’s shoulder. A rare, fragile kind of peace settled over her.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the feeling of being seen... and believed.

__________________________

Logan had just returned from a short call on the terrace when he paused outside the bedroom door.

It was slightly ajar.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop... but the sound of soft voices made him stop. Something about the way his mother was speaking... The tone wasn’t like her usual firm matriarch self.

"You don’t have to tell me more," Martha’s voice drifted softly. "But I want you to know that this house? This family? We’re not like them. And Logan... he may not show it the way you expect, but he’d set the world on fire to protect you."

Logan’s heart stilled.

He heard Jean’s voice in return, low and trembling. "You suspected your son first... that says a lot."

A pause.

Then the faintest sound of fabric shifting... the kind of sound you only hear when someone leans in. When someone rests their head on someone else’s shoulder.

Logan took a quiet step forward.

Through the cracked door, he saw them: Jean sitting beside his mother on the edge of the bed, her head gently leaning on Martha’s shoulder. His mother had one arm wrapped around her, her chin resting lightly atop Jean’s hair.

There was no pity in the moment.

Only understanding.

And care.

And something in Logan’s chest twisted painfully.