18. Wrenley
EIGHTEEN
WRENLEY
M y hands won’t stop shaking on the steering wheel.
I make it three blocks from Saint’s house before I have to pull over, my breathing too threadbare to drive safely. The morning sun streams through the windshield, cheerful and bright, mocking the disaster I’ve made of everything.
You knew this would happen, I tell myself. You knew better than to get involved.
But knowing and doing are two different things, and last night I did everything I’d sworn I wouldn’t.
Let him touch me. Let him inside me. Not just my body, but through all the caution I’d built, all the better sense I’d acquired, since the incident six months ago.
Since everything fell apart in front of twenty million people.
I rest my forehead against the wheel, trying to steady my box breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The technique my therapist taught me feels useless now, when I can still smell him on my skin. Still feel his hands on my waist, his mouth on my?—
Stop.
As soon as I find somewhere to settle down, I’ll call my therapist. Talk this out. Figure this out.
I force myself to drive, to focus on the road leading into downtown Falcon Haven.
The town is just waking up. Shop owners are flipping signs from Closed to Open as the morning light paints everything golden.
A week ago, this place saved me. The quiet.
The anonymity. The blessed absence of cameras and recognition and people who think they know me because they watched me shatter on their phones.
My stomach growls, reminding me I fled before breakfast. Before Saint’s French toast and his questions and that look in his eyes that made me want a life I can’t have.
Libby Jude’s comes into view, and I find available street parking right in front of it.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the scent of bacon and fresh-baked muffins wraps around me like a hug.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Noa calls from behind the counter. She takes in my rumpled appearance of yesterday’s jeans, hastily finger-combed hair, and probably visible beard burn on my neck.
“Rough night or rough morning?”
“Both,” I admit, sliding onto one of the three vinyl barstools at the counter.
“Coffee, please. And...” I scan the menu board, looking for something completely unlike my usual healthy fare. “The chicken fried steak. Extra gravy.”
Noa’s eyebrows climb. “At seven in the morning?”
“Yup. ”
She pours my coffee, then leans against the counter. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “But thank you.”
“No problem.” She writes my order on her pad and disappears into the kitchen briefly. When she returns, she starts wiping down the already clean counter. “You’ve been here about a week now, right?”
“Just over, yeah.”
“How are you finding it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and mean it. “It’s so quiet I can hear birds in the morning. In Brooklyn, all I heard was helicopters and sirens. And people actually make eye contact here when they pass on the sidewalk.”
Noa releases a quiet laugh, her brown eyes sparkling. “You sound like my husband. The eye contact thing throws a lot of city people. He still forgets to wave back sometimes.”
“Your husband’s from New York?” I lean forward, interested. “How did he end up here?”
“He came here for family, stayed for me. Though we took the scenic route to figure things out. Small towns have a way of forcing you to face what you’re running from.”
My stomach tightens. “What do you mean?”
“Small town, big feelings. Nowhere to run.” She tops off my coffee. “We have a three-year-old now who terrorizes the café every time we bring him in.”
The kitchen bell dings, and she retrieves my plate, setting the massive chicken fried steak in front of me.
“This looks like a heart attack on a plate,” I say.
“Comfort food usually does.” She watches me cut into it. “So are you still watching Ivy?”
I pause mid-bite. “Actually, no. Saint found someone more qualified.” As soon as I realize I sound more bitter than I aimed for, I amend, “Which makes total sense.”
“Ah.”
Noa turns to fiddle with the intricate coffee machine, giving me space.
“It’s the right decision.” Apparently, I’ve decided to double down. “Ivy needs someone with experience, who knows what they’re doing. Not someone who just stumbled into it.”
“And how does Ivy feel about that?”
My throat closes. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t suck for both of us. But … I never came here to be a nanny.”
“Hmm.” Noa’s tone is carefully neutral. “So what’s next for you? Have you explored much yet?”
“A little. Yesterday at Talon Ranch was incredible. All that open space, no crowds. Just horses and sky.” I pause. “Though honestly, I haven’t really walked around downtown. I keep meaning to explore the shops, maybe hike some trails, but...”
But I’ve been caught up in Saint’s world instead. Breakfast with Ivy. Dinner at their table. Living in their guesthouse like I’m part of something I’m not.
I take another bite, buying time. “I actually came here to figure out what’s next. I needed a break and to clear my head. Instead, I spent the whole week playing house with them.”
I’m not sure what it is about Noa that’s made me vomit honesty like this, but her kindness and nonjudgmental ear are things I’ve really missed.
When was the last time I had that? Before I became an influencer, definitely.
I lost a lot of friends when my life became about content and I started documenting everything instead of living it.
Turned every girls’ night into a photo shoot, every brunch into content.
Some friends loved being part of it, others pulled back.
By the time I realized I needed better boundaries, my circle had gotten smaller without me noticing.
They tried to tell me I was losing myself, and by the time I realized they were right, they’d already stopped calling.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Brenda’s name fills the screen. Wren, we need to discuss your contracts NOW.
“Everything okay?” Noa asks, noticing me tense.
“Work,” I say on a sigh, setting my phone on the counter face down. “I’ve been dodging calls, but…”
“But?”
“But I can’t hide forever.” I take another bite of delicious comfort. “My job follows me everywhere, and I came here to get away from it.”
Noa’s quiet for a moment. “You know, when things feel overwhelming, sometimes you just need your own space to think. No pressure, but there’s an apartment above the bookstore. The owner’s been trying to rent it out. Marcus is pretty flexible on terms.”
“An apartment?” The idea of my own space, somewhere that isn’t Saint’s guesthouse but isn’t leaving Falcon Haven either, unties the knot in my chest.
“Two rooms, lots of light. The radiator’s noisy, but the location’s perfect. You could walk everywhere, really explore the town you came here to see.”
“How do you know the owner?”
“Small town.” She smiles. “Want me to see if he can show it today?”
“Please.” I nod eagerly. “That would be amazing.”
Noa pulls out her phone, texts rapidly, then looks up with a smile. “Marcus says he can meet you there in an hour. It’s literally just across the street and two doors down.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. The idea of somewhere neutral, somewhere that isn’t charged with memories of Saint’s hands and Ivy’s laughter, feels like the lifeline I desperately need.
My phone buzzes again. Brenda’s face appears on my screen, this time for an actual call. I can’t avoid her forever.
“I should take this,” I say, reaching for my wallet.
Noa waves me off. “Go ahead. Your food will be here when you’re done.”
I step outside onto the sidewalk, the morning sun warming my shoulders as I answer.
“Hey, Brenda.”
“Eight days, Wrenley. Eight days of minimal contact.” Her voice is tight with professional restraint. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been dealing with? Sponsors are threatening to pull contracts. Your legal team is having kittens.”
I lean against the brick wall of the café, closing my eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t pay your bills or mine. Look, I’ve managed to hold them off, but we need to discuss your options. You said you marinated. Does that mean you like the idea of getting to know the gorgeous Mr. Toussaint?”
Oh, if only she knew.
“I can’t go back to posting like nothing happened,” I hedge instead of answering. “I just can’t, Brenda.”
There’s a pause, then her tone softens slightly.
“I’m not asking you to pretend the attack didn’t happen, Wren.
Or your breakdown after. But it’s been a few weeks since your last post, the one that went, you know …
viral. People are worried after seeing you like that, but they’re also starting to forget.
If you’re going to come back, now’s the time. ”
My fingers instinctively rise to my shoulder, where the worst of it burns. However, the terror of that night, the helplessness as hands grabbed me in the dark of my hotel room, and the sound of my own screaming when security finally arrived…
I’d always had a problem pulling, cutting, and scratching. But it was under control. Hidden. Until that night.
“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper.
“You have three major contracts you need to fulfill. Unless you want to be sued into oblivion, we need a plan.” Brenda’s voice is gentle but firm. “But we can modify. Small steps. No live streams for now. No events.”
My mind churns, calculating options. “What if ... what if I documented my temporary, small-town life? Nothing personal. Just scenery. No actual locations. The town square. No faces, no names. I already have a few saved videos to start with.”
Brenda sighs. “That could work for the lifestyle brand, but the cosmetics line and the athleisure contract…”
“I’ll figure something out. I can take long-range photos of myself with a timer.”
“They want close-ups,” Brenda says quietly. “Which is why you haven’t posted anything since?—”
“I know.” I cut her off sharper than intended. A woman walking by with her dog glances over, and I lower my voice. “But I also know what happens if I breach the contract.”
“Wren.” Brenda’s tone shifts, becoming the voice of the woman who’s been my advocate for three years, not just my agent.
“Talk to me. Really tell me what you can do. Because what happened in that hotel room … and then when you tried to go live to let your followers know you were okay, but you couldn’t stop shaking …
honey, that wasn’t just a bad day. That was trauma. ”
Trauma. Such a clinical term for the way I claw at myself when I’m alone in the dark. For the way I check locks three times now. For the scars on my shoulder that Saint kissed so gently last night.
“I can’t talk about it on camera,” I whisper. “I can’t have millions of people watching me fall apart again.”
“Then don’t. We’ll work around it.” Her voice is firm now, back in problem-solving mode. “Okay, so small-town content. Nature shots. Oh! Maybe some cooking if you’re up for it. People love that cozy, domestic stuff. No personal details, no locations that could identify where you are.”
“And the contracts?”
“I’ll renegotiate. Tell them you’re taking a wellness break and focusing on mental health. It’s trendy now. Brands eat that authenticity up.”
I almost laugh at the irony. My authentic breakdown went viral, and now we’re going to package my recovery for consumption, too.
“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll call you tomorrow with a content schedule.”
I end the call before she can probe further.
When I return to my seat, the chicken fried steak has gone cold, but I eat it anyway. The grease and salt feel appropriate for my current emotional state.
“Better?” Noa asks.
“Clearer, anyway.” I take a long sip of lukewarm coffee. “Thank you for listening. And for the apartment lead.”
“That’s what neighbors do.” She smiles. “And Wrenley? Whatever brought you here, whatever you’re running from, this town has a way of helping people figure things out. Give it time.”
An hour later, I’m standing in front of Cornerstone Books, a narrow three-story building with forest-green shutters and window boxes full of late-season mums after receiving the grand tour, which took all of ten minutes .
“I’ll take it,” I say to Marcus.
Marcus hands me the keys.