5. Cheyenne
Cheyenne
It’s the buzzing of my phone that wakes me the next morning. I grab it off the nightstand and glance at the screen before swiping to answer.
“Hey.”
“How’s my favorite runaway?” my older sister asks.
I smile despite myself. “You heard, huh?”
“Oh yeah,” Britt says with a laugh. “Mom’s furious, by the way.”
Of course she is. I would expect nothing less from Sharon Benson.
Not wanting to talk about our mother, I ask instead, “How are you feeling? Baby number three is right around the corner.”
“Actually, I feel pretty good.”
“And the other kiddos? How are they?”
“Avery refuses to wear anything that isn’t pink, and Maddox tried to feed the dog a Pop-Tart this morning. So, to answer your question… it’s just another normal day in the McNichols household.”
I laugh, and some of the tension from yesterday falls away. “I miss the little hellions.”
“The little hellions miss you too,” Britt says. “So, what are you doing in Chicago?”
I hesitate. There isn’t much I keep from my sister, but I’m not ready to disclose the real reason for ending up here.
“Oh, you know. I just needed a little break.”
“A break from the Dakota situation or a break from everything else?”
Both.
The show.
The cameras.
The constant scrutiny.
The way everything in my life feels staged. Including my relationships.
“I don’t know if I want to do the show anymore,” I admit. “I’m tired, Britt. It all feels so fake and a little pointless.”
There’s a pause.
“I get it,” she says. “It wasn’t all that long ago I went through the same thing.”
I know she does. Except Britt didn’t just take off.
She totally disappeared. She walked away after wrapping the season finale where her boyfriend at the time proposed and ended up enrolling at Western University where she met Colby McNichols.
One drunk Vegas wedding later, and their love story is history.
“But you figured it out,” I say wistfully. “You were brave enough to carve out your own path.”
“You’re right, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t scary at the time.
Or that I didn’t have second thoughts, afraid I was making a huge mistake.
You’re allowed to do the same, Chey. You don’t have to keep living this life if it’s not what you want.
Despite what Mom says, you’re old enough to make your own decisions. ”
Thick emotion clogs my throat because deep down, I know she’s right.
But it’s terrifying.
Britt’s a talented singer, and the long-running reality show our family has become synonymous with was originally built around her. After she left, Mom shoved me center stage, pushing me to sing, as if I could somehow fill the void my sister left behind.
“I don’t know what life without the show looks like yet.” I barely remember what it was like before we started filming. In a way, it feels like I grew up in front of the cameras.
“The good thing is that you don’t need to have it all figured out right now,” she replies. “Just don’t let Mom force you into something you don’t want.”
Easier said than done.
“I won’t. Once I make a decision, I’ll deal with Mom.”
“She won’t tell you to take as much time as you need, but I will. This is your life, Chey. You’re allowed to question whether or not it makes you happy.”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. No one ever says things like that to me.
We talk about contracts, filming schedules, branding deals, and how much of myself I’m expected to hand over before people are finally satisfied.
Hearing Britt say it so simply, as if my happiness actually matters, makes my chest ache.
“Thanks, Sis.”
“Anytime. And I mean that.”
“Love you.”
“Love you right back.”
As soon as we hang up, I lie in the king-sized bed for a few seconds and stare at the ceiling. My heart feels too full and too unsteady all at once. Kind of like I’ve been standing on the edge of a cliff for a while and only just realized I might jump.
My phone lights up again. For just a second, I think it’s Britt until I see the name flash on the screen.
Sharon Benson.
Momager extraordinaire.
My stomach tightens. Instead of answering, I let it go to voicemail. A second later, my cell rings again before an incoming text chimes.
Mom:
Call me ASAP
I huff out a sigh, and wish that at age twenty-six, I wasn’t still intimidated by my mother.
Hey, I give the woman a lot of credit. She was working as a nurse when a video of Britt singing and playing the guitar went viral, and she’s the one who parlayed that into a reality show centered around our family.
Think Keeping Up with the Kardashians but bigger.
Younger me was enamored of the spotlight.
Now, it’s a monster I just want to escape from.
If I talk to her now, she’ll pull me right back in before I’ve had a chance to think things through. And I don’t want that.
I need some time and space.
Instead of dealing with her head-on, I pull on a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt. Then I throw my hair into a ponytail, and skip the makeup routine altogether. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the person staring back at me.
Good. That’s exactly what I want.
Gone is the woman with glossy hair, perfect skin, and a carefully chosen outfit that photographs well.
It’s just me. Or, at least, the closest version I can manage at the moment.
I grab my keycard and slide it into the pocket of my leggings before heading to the door and slipping into the hallway. A few minutes later, I’m striding through the lobby. Even though it’s early, there are a dozen or so people milling around. Not a single one of them glances in my direction.
The moment I step outside, the cold air hits my lungs. Without stretching, I take off at a slow jog. It’s one foot in front of the other. The rhythm is familiar and predictable.
And it feels so damn good.
There aren’t any cameras, stylists, or expectations.
Without a face full of makeup and the latest couture, I’m just another woman jogging through the city.
Invisible.
There’s no way Dakota will look for me here. No one expects me to be in Chicago. For the first time in weeks, I finally feel like I can suck in a full breath.
Three miles in, my lungs are burning and my thoughts have quieted.
Running always does that for me. It’s become my drug of choice.
By the fourth mile, my sweatshirt is tied around my waist and the breeze stings my cheeks.
My legs ache in that satisfying way that quiets everything in my head.
Like if I just keep moving, I can outrun all of it.
The show.
My mother.
Dakota.
My own uncertainties.
As I push through the revolving door of the hotel, sweat dampening the back of my neck, I feel so much lighter.
That is until I catch sight of Knox sitting in one of the plush armchairs near the lobby windows, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded across his broad chest. He scowls as his gaze lands on mine.
The harsh expression is almost enough to make me stumble.
All I can say is that the man does not look pleased.
Then again, he’s looking at me, so what else is new?
Still… there’s something about finding him at the hotel that sends an unexpected jolt through me.
I force myself to close the distance between us before pulling out my earbuds. “What are you doing here?”
He rises to his feet, towering over me. “Your location was on the move.”
I blink, wondering if this is a riddle I’m supposed to solve. “And?”
“You were gone for almost an hour.”
“I went for a run.”
“Alone?”
It’s tempting to roll my eyes. “Yes. I went alone.”
His jaw tightens. “You should have let me know.”
Something flickers low in my stomach.
Annoyance, probably.
It’s definitely not anything else.
Like attraction.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that wasn’t part of the rules,” I say lightly as we move through the lobby.
“That can be rectified, Hollywood,” he says, falling into step beside me. “Just say the word.”
I glance at him, expecting to find a teasing light in his eyes or humor in his expression. Instead, he actually looks concerned. As if he’s been sitting here, silently working himself into a lather while waiting for me to show up.
Which is ridiculous.
And yet…
Before I can snap out a response, the receptionist at the front desk waves me over. “Miss…?” She glances at the computer. “Ms. Scott? A delivery just arrived for you.”
“For me?” My brows pinch together as my belly dips. “Are you sure?”
She glances at her computer screen again. “Anna Scott? Room 608, right?”
I checked in under a fake name. Not because it’s cute or clever. But because living under this kind of microscope teaches you early on that privacy is mostly an illusion, and aliases are one of the few things that still feel like an extra layer of protection.
My steps slow. “Yup.” I clear my throat as Knox side-eyes me. “That would be me.”
The receptionist hands over a large arrangement of blood-red roses. There must be at least two dozen of them with lots of greens and baby’s breath.
My heart sinks as I stare at the flowers.
Before I even glance at the card, I know who they’re from.
I don’t realize my hands are shaking until I pluck the envelope from the arrangement and try opening it.
When I fumble the flap for a third time, Knox wraps his fingers around mine, giving them a gentle squeeze.
My gaze darts to him in surprise.
“Let me do it.”
Instead of arguing, I jerk my head in a tight nod as he carefully opens the envelope, and we peer at the card.
We’re soulmates, Chey. There’s nowhere you can run I won’t find you. —D
For just a second, the noise in the lobby disappears and I have the strangest sensation of being underwater where everything sounds far away.
All I see is the neat handwriting that swims in front of my eyes.
The freedom I felt just ten minutes ago vanishes so completely, it’s as if it never existed.
“He knows you’re here,” Knox mutters. “And he’s obviously aware of your alias.”
“I—” My mouth turns bone dry. “It’s the one I always use when checking into hotels. It’s Julia Roberts’s character from Notting Hill.” My brows furrow. “I don’t understand how he found me so quickly.”
With a scowl, Knox stares at the roses. “Pack your bags.”
I blink, thrown off by the comment. “What?”
“You’re not safe here.”
“Knox—”
“I’m not going to argue about this, Chey.” He holds up the card. “You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and he already found you.”
I glance at the flowers and then the note. My hands won’t stop shaking. More than that, I hate that Knox is seeing just how bad the situation has become.
“I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not.”
I shift, searching for an alternative. “Maybe I—”
“Pack your bags, Hollywood. That’s what’s happening.”
There’s no arguing with his gruff tone. What makes even less sense is that standing next to a vase overflowing with unwanted roses, my ex’s note clutched in my hand, Knox feels like the safest option.
With a swallow, I nod. “Okay.”