Chapter 5
Ali
“Alison Taylor-Made Soulmate Bennet, your ass better be here. I am not waiting on this porch all damn day.”
I knew that voice. “Misha?”
“Yes, babe. It is I. Open up. There are bugs out here.”
I squealed with delight as I yanked open the sticky door.
“What are you doing here?”
It had been more than a week since I arrived in Lakeside. I’d survived. Mostly isolated—which was not sustainable. I needed people. Especially this person.
Misha breezed his masculine, leathery-amber scent into the cabin.
He started to speak rapidly. “Girl, you left a bunch of stuff at the office that I knew you’d want back.
My internship ended yesterday, so I got to be the lucky one to box it all up, and I was supposed to ship it, but babe!
You left behind your Chanel and a pair of Louboutins.
I was not sending those in the mail. Ew.
I had to hand-deliver them to my favorite baby girl.
” He took a deep inhale. “And . . . I missed you.”
“How did you find me? How did you even get here? You didn’t take the bus, did you?” I fired off in one breath.
“You gave this address to HR. And I drove my car. Absolutely not—I did not take a bus.” He looked at me like he smelled something spoiled. “Why? Did you take a bus here?”
I skipped that.
“Misha! You’re here!” I launched into him. Hugging hard. “Come in. Had I known you were coming, I would have ridden up with you instead of taking the bus. Because yes . . . I took the Greyhound bus here.”
He recoiled. “You?”
“I’m fine. I survived.” I waved it off.
“I would have been here sooner if you had called. Texted. Sent a DM, for God’s sake! I was lost without you at that place.”
Misha had been a graduate intern at GlennGlobal while working on his MBA.
We’d operated on opposite ends of the company—me in communications, him chasing new business.
But on his first day, he’d complimented my vintage Yves Saint Laurent and we locked in instantly.
Zero romantic confusion. Pure soulmate energy.
He was my work bestie.
And since he didn’t witness the spectacularly public collapse of my career—and I hadn’t even said goodbye—I’d assumed he was gone for good.
“Yeah, well,” I said, lifting a brow, “I’m sure my departure provided weeks of premium gossip.”
“Not going to lie. There was a lot.”
We sat down at the table off the kitchen, slipping right back into our GlennGlobal rhythm—fabulous, caffeinated, and swapping stories like we were holding court in the café-style break room.
“The most important part,” Misha said, “we unanimously decided you were treated unfairly. And Ryan? Douche of the highest degree. A mega douche. ‘Ryan Glenn, MD.’”
I groaned. “Stop, really?”
“It was iconic. He overheard someone using the code name and started correcting everyone that he wasn’t a doctor. As if we would ever mistake him for a medical professional. Sir. Please.”
“Yeah, well, Molly told the world a different story about what happened,” I said.
Molly also hadn’t been there, but she’d decided it was well within her rights as Ryan’s new girlfriend to spin my story to fit her rose-colored narrative.
“Fuck. Her!” Misha snapped. “She is nothing without you. She has no class. She totally stole your cute aesthetic, and nobody is watching her shit anyway.” Misha punctuated each sentence with sharp flicks of his wrists and dramatic jabs of his fingers. He was conducting an orchestra of outrage.
A few days after my world imploded, Molly had posted a “Get Ready With Me” that doubled as an Ali Bennet takedown.
She blended contour and fiction.
Reframed my collapse to seem inevitable. Deserved.
I wasn’t surprised.
I’d thought Molly and I were best friends.
What I’d mistaken for closeness was just codependency, carefully curated. Our lives were intertwined to benefit her—financially and socially. Her greatest talent was living off the generosity of others, especially mine.
My trust floated our rent while she launched her career as an influencer.
My connections got us invites.
My last name opened doors for her brand deals.
And my humiliation? It had served as background music while she swiped glitter on her eyelids.
“How many times did you watch it, Misha? Be honest.”
“Who cares. Just a couple.”
“Just a couple?”
“Maybe more. Girl, I was fact-checking.”
“Definitely more?”
“Definitely more,” he said, resigned.
“Me too.”
Masochist.
I got up to prepare our tea as the kettle started to whistle. Misha was looking around the cottage from his chair at the kitchen table.
“If you watched Molly’s video, then you know that she and Ryan are together now.” I blew out a breath.
“How long do you think that was going on?”
I shrugged. I had a pretty good idea, but what did it really matter?
“And then my dad . . . he was so disappointed. Meesh, he cut me off completely this time.” I handed Misha a mug.
“I had about a week to pack up my stuff, vacate my beautiful apartment, and figure out where to go. This is my grandmother’s cottage.
She left it to me when she died.” I sipped from my cup.
“Funny thing. She actually told me once this was a place for fresh starts. Oh, how right she was.” I sighed and put my head in my hands.
“Misha.” I sounded a tad whiny. “My life is in shambles.”
“Oh really? That’s not what I see.”
I looked up. He crossed his arms but left one hand free, bringing his fingers together and gracefully flicking his wrist in sync with his words.
“Misha Fierce has entered the chat,” I said, shimmying my shoulders. Like Beyoncé’s Sasha Fierce alter ego, Misha Fierce was his most bold, fearless, and glamorous side.
He pressed his fingertips together near his chest, like a preacher about to deliver a sermon, then delicately spread them apart as if unwrapping a gift of wisdom.
“I see a strong, smart, privileged woman who got wounded in the battle of love—if that’s even what it really was.” He flicked his wrists again. “And who lost her job—one she didn’t even like anyway,” he added with two taps on the top of my hand.
I leaned back in my chair. I couldn’t disagree.
“Your, ah, safety net”—he twirled his finger around like a magic wand—“is quaint in this gorgeously remote wilderness. Your accommodation may be a little dated, but it’s charming!”
I nodded, and a smile I couldn’t help lifted the corners of my mouth.
“If you ask me? All this,” he continued, arms sweeping through the air with flair, “and all that happened in Chicago were gifts. Maybe you were on the wrong path and you needed to be derailed so you could find the right one.” He paused and settled his back against his chair. “I’m no expert, of course . . .”
“Of course . . .” Playfulness was in my tone even as I dabbed at my eyes because the tears were back.
“But. You are at the precipice of a glow-up in all its forms. So your crown is a little askew. You’re still a queen. No—more than that.” He sat up straight again and held up a single finger pointed at me.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, dragging out the moment.
“You. My darling. Are a goddess. It’s time to own that shit! Reinvent yourself. Step into your new era, baby! And thank God you’re free of that human equivalent of a flat tire.”
He settled his energy back to graceful with a tug on his shirt cuffs and a sip from his teacup.
“Easier said than done. My dad cut me off, remember. Like . . . cut me off, cut me off. From everything. No trust fund. No putting a call in for me. No more relying on him. No more ‘finding myself’ trips to Thailand where I accidentally bump a movie star at the resort pool and he invites me onto his yacht, and there are tons of people but he can’t keep his eyes off me, and I have to let him down gently, but we stay flirty friends for years. ”
The words poured out of me like a garden hose on full blast—aimed at a teaspoon.
“Oddly specific. True story?” Misha asked, one eyebrow lifted.
I nodded. “Spring of my junior year. I was drowning in corporate finance class and needed a getaway that looked like Thailand. It was exactly what I needed.” I shrugged.
“I met Ava Liang on that trip. She actually tutored me. This was before she became Your Wealthy Wingwoman online. She’s brilliant with numbers!
I should’ve listened to more of her advice.
At the time, I was just trying to get an A in that damn class.
Which I got, by the way. I credit the man for the ego boost, Ava for the grade. ”
“You have lived some kinda life,” Misha said in a dazed sort of way.
I smirked back at him. “Well, that’s all over. No retreat. No Prince Charming. No Ava Liang wisdom and guidance. Well, maybe that. She is online. But no money to manage. Oh, and the worst part, Misha. You should have seen the way my father looked at me after what happened at GlennGlobal—”
Misha nodded. “Okay. I need to know. Was it Ryan that fucked up? And you took the fall for him? How did you get caught up in it?”
I took a deep breath. Debriefing this disaster was going to take a lot out of me.
“I don’t know how it happened. I was drafting a memo and highlighting a report about the environmental impact of the last two projects—I remember because I’d highlighted so much of that damn report my best highlighter ran out of ink and I had to change colors midway. Total aesthetics nightmare.”
Misha stopped me. “An environmental impact report?”
“There were scary levels of toxins seeping into the groundwater that shouldn’t be ignored.
Next thing I know, Ryan rushes into my office, panicking about having to tell his dad he messed something up, again, and asked me to back him up.
I distinctly remember him saying, ‘Will you have my back?’ He was in a desperate state, Meesh.
Like a little lost boy or something. He told me he needed me.
Of course I was going to have his back. I thought we were endgame and this was some sort of test of my loyalty or something .
. . Obviously, I should’ve asked more questions. ”
I had been summoned into the fishbowl boardroom and presented at the altar of GlennGlobal in front of project leaders, board members, executives, and investors from across the globe. The room was silent. All eyes on me. Consternation and hostility heavy in the air.
Cary Glenn, Ryan’s dad and the founder of GlennGlobal, sat at the head of the table at the other end of the room—the emperor heralding over his senate and army. The heirs to the throne, Ryan and his older brother Dylan, sat to Cary’s left.
Ryan didn’t look up when I walked in, which sent a chill down my spine. I wanted to pull the sleeves of my silk blouse over my hands like a little girl.
Cary Glenn remained seated as he began speaking. Berating.
He had a reputation for commanding his empire with an iron fist and alienating those closest to him for the sake of business. He had incredibly high standards and was ruthless in pursuit of excellence.
I’m not sure when it hit me that Ryan wasn’t in the line of fire of Cary’s spittle. I was.
I had looked to Ryan for answers. Anything to explain why his father’s vitriol was hitting the wrong target. He’d never met my eyes.
“Misha, I did not agree to take the fall for him. I still don’t even know what I took the fall for. It’s so gross how easily I was dismissed as some stupid, silly failure among all those suits and white hair.”
“Ryan is a fuck boy! I hate him. Always have,” Misha said supportively. “Oh, babe. I am so sorry. You were framed by that . . . coward. I hate all this for you. What do you feel? Like really feel?” Misha asked.
The question stopped me. It wasn’t just one feeling. It was a landslide of them crashing in from every direction.
I felt stripped. Like my petals had been plucked clean. Just a bare stem—exposed. Untethered. Unsure where to lean.
“I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “But . . . I don’t hate it here. Which surprises me.”
I glanced toward the window.
“Getting here on that bus. Finding my way to the cabin. It made me feel . . . accomplished.”
I gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Which is ridiculous. Who celebrates successfully relocating herself?”
“Don’t do that,” Misha said, pointing his fingers at my face.
“What?”
“That!” He spread his palms up like he was revealing something major. “Belittle. Marginalize. Gaslight yourself! Girl, you have every right to feel what you feel.”
I nodded. “I guess I needed to prove I could get somewhere without a chauffeur.”
“So what do you want to do about this crisis? Please don’t get bangs!”
I snickered a laugh.
“I guess I want to find my way back to my old life. Make my dad proud. Define some things for myself. Maybe fix this place up and sell it. One thing is for sure, I’m done with my old chaotic life.
I want a change. I think my stop here will be the stepping stone into my next phase.
Maybe? I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Yes! Girl, you’re Alison Fucking Bennet, and you can do all that,” he said, knowing my internal mantra and raising his hands up like a preacher calling for an amen.
He reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
“How long can you stay?” I asked.
“For the weekend for sure. And throughout the summer I can visit often if you want. I have a lot more time on my hands now that the internship has ended. My parents need me to help clean up some accounting stuff for them. Their business is thriving, but it is also so unorganized. I have to set up systems. It’s a whole thing.
Then, in the fall, I’ll have to get back into studying mode.
This MBA program isn’t going to finish itself.
But I have a mostly unencumbered summer, so we can be feral queens in the wilderness together.
It’ll be transformative,” he said with flair.
I glanced out the window over the kitchen sink, which faced the lake. It was a gorgeous afternoon.
Late spring—never the most reliable season in the Midwest—was making a statement with its show of sunshine and stems of tall grasses and soon-to-bloom wildflowers dancing in the light breeze. I thought of Jake, the neighbor, and the way he talked about the wildflowers.
I looked at Misha. “So, are you up for a tour of Lakeside?”
“Yes, please! Wear something cute! Photos and videos will be taken,” Misha said with a singsong tone.