My Sister Owed Him Two Hundred Thousand

Leighton had no idea about the anonymous email. Elliott Hughes, however, had seen it. The smile drained from his face as he passed his phone to Logan Jackson. Logan’s gaze flicked over the screen, and his expression went hard in an instant.

A few feet away, Leighton stood with the police, confirming her statement. She looked fragile—pale, small, worn thin—but she held herself like someone who refused to break. She hadn’t flinched when she faced Muhammad Turner. And even under the weight of all those judging stares, she hadn’t cried. Not once.

Logan watched her, his thumb absently tracing the edge of the phone. The words in the email were eating at him.

“Not the only one she saved.”

It felt deliberate. Designed to push his buttons—to make him dig, to make him lose his cool, to force him to unearth things that weren’t ready to see daylight.

Elliott lowered his voice. “Mr. Jackson, should we look into it?”

Logan handed the phone back. “Find out where it came from.”

Elliott nodded.

“And Ms. Turner?”

“She doesn’t need to know yet.” Logan’s eyes stayed locked on Leighton. “She’s got enough on her plate.”

Elliott, uncharacteristically serious, pocketed the phone and got to work.

It was past eight by the time Leighton finished with the police. She checked the time, and her brow pinched. Logan could guess where her head was at.

“Night shift at the grocery store?”

Leighton nodded. “Ten to two.”

“Take the night off.”

“I can’t tonight,” she said. The store manager was already pissed about the forum mess. If she missed another shift, she could kiss her job goodbye. And she needed the money.

Logan heard her out, but he didn’t push. He just said, “I’ll drive you.”

Leighton meant to refuse. Then she remembered what she’d told him earlier: “Next time, I’ll call you.” It hadn’t been that long, and shoving him away now would’ve felt like a lie.

So she nodded. “Just to the entrance.”

Elliott cut in fast. “Don’t worry, Ms. Turner. Our boss is a gentleman. He’ll walk you to the door and won’t hover around to bother your work.”

Logan gave him a look cold enough to freeze hell.

Elliott added, “Unless he decides to do a little shopping.”

Leighton couldn’t help the small smile that slipped out.

Logan’s whole demeanor softened when he saw it.

The grocery store wasn’t far from campus—a small place with a 24/7 sign glowing by the door. Leighton changed into her uniform, pulled her hair back, and became the quiet, efficient part-timer again.

The manager opened his mouth to scold her, then thought better of it when he spotted Logan outside. Logan didn’t come in. He stayed beyond the glass door, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, watching her straighten the shelves.

At ten-thirty, a group of students wandered in. One of them recognized Leighton. They drifted toward the drink coolers, phones angled at her. Leighton acted like she didn’t see them. She kept restocking sandwiches, checking price tags.

They got bolder. One guy walked up to the register with a bottle of water. When she scanned it, he turned his phone toward her—the forum post, headline and all, ugly and crude.

“Hey, sis, does being a contract girlfriend get you discounts?” he sneered.

Leighton looked up. No anger. Just calm as she scanned the water. “Two dollars.”

He wasn’t done. “Aw, don’t be so cold. Isn’t Logan sweet on you? Why not get him to buy this whole shop for you?”

Laughter burst from the back.

Leighton tore the receipt from the register. “That’ll be two dollars,” she said, unfazed.

When he handed over his phone, it wasn’t on a payment screen. It was pointed at her. Livestreaming.

Her patience frayed. “Please stop filming.”

“It’s a public space. What’s the harm?” He smirked and pushed the phone closer.

Then the glass door chimed. Logan walked in.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t shout. He just grabbed a bottle of water, stepped up to the counter, and stood behind the boy. His shadow fell over him, and the kid froze.

Logan set the water down. “Ring it up.”

Leighton glanced at him. He looked like he was just there for water. She scanned the bottle. “Two dollars.”

Logan paid, but he didn’t leave. His gaze locked on the boy with the phone. “Streaming?”

The boy’s face went pale. “Mr. Jackson, I was just joking…”

Logan stared down at him, voice low. “Turn it off.”

The boy fumbled to end the stream.

“And delete it.”

He scrambled to comply. His friends weren’t laughing anymore. They slunk out the door without buying a thing.

The store went quiet again. Leighton tossed the receipt in the trash. “I thought you didn’t want to disrupt my work?”

Logan cracked open the water and took a sip. “I made a purchase.”

She managed half a smile.

He set the bottle aside. “Keep working.”

She watched him drift to a shelf and pick up a magazine. Someone like him sitting by the store window should’ve been impossible to ignore, but he didn’t bother her. He just stayed there—a silent line no one wanted to cross.

Customers came in, took one look at him, and quickly looked away.

Leighton went back to the shelves.

Half an hour later, when the store had thinned out, Logan rose and gathered a few things: milk, sandwiches, a heat pack, and a box of Band-Aids.

While scanning, Leighton paused at the Band-Aids. “Are you hurt?”

His gaze held steady. “For you.”

She looked down. A paper cut on her fingertip had drawn a tiny bead of blood. She hadn’t noticed. He had.

He opened the box and handed her one. Leighton hesitated, then took it. He didn’t try to put it on for her. He just laid it on the counter. “For you.”

She picked up the Band-Aid—plain, store-brand, nothing special—but it sent a soft ripple through her chest.

She pressed it to her finger, aware of Logan watching. For a second, his expression went distant, like he was seeing something else. Someone else.

By the time she looked up, he was back to normal.

At two a.m., her shift ended. Leighton changed out of her uniform and stepped outside. Logan was still there. He sat in the car, window cracked, the late hour wearing at his eyes.

She walked over. “You stayed?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Figured you’d hate having someone drive you back to the hospital.”

He’d hit the nail on the head. She’d already planned to walk.

Logan got out and draped his coat over her shoulders. “Wear it.”

“No need.”

“It’s two in the morning. It’s cold.”

She wanted to refuse, but Logan settled the coat over her shoulders. His touch was light, careful not to brush her neck. He just let the fabric fall around her thin frame.

The coat smelled faintly of woods—warm, comforting. She curled her fingers around the edges and didn’t fight it.

On the drive back to the hospital, she leaned against the window and fell asleep. Logan watched her, noticing the faint crease between her brows even in sleep. His hand hovered for a moment, then dropped. Instead, he turned up the heat.

Leighton slept restlessly, half lost in a rainy night years ago. She was back at the abandoned tennis court, pressing a Band-Aid to someone’s bloody wrist. The person asked her name. She answered, “Leighton.”

When the car stopped at the hospital, Leighton woke with a start. Logan was watching her.

Still groggy, she blurted, “Does your wrist still hurt?”

Logan froze, momentarily at a loss for words.