22. Wrenley
TWENTY-TWO
WRENLEY
R alph watches blandly when I check my door lock three times.
“What?” I ask the orange cat sprawled on my bed. “I’m being thorough.”
The cat offers a noncommittal yawn, stretching languidly across my pillow.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, startling me. It’s probably Brenda again, checking on the new content schedule I promised. Or maybe Saint, confirming dinner plans. My fingers twitch with the hope it’s the latter.
But I know it’s worse than that.
I shouldn’t have checked my notifications while walking the trail with Ivy and Saint.
But Saint’s sudden, towering presence with sky-blue eyes that know too much and his arms wrapping around me, the ropes of his tendons and tattoos holding me against him like I’ll never have anything to worry about again, forced me to find a distraction.
And so I did what I promised my therapist I wouldn’t do. My promise of no engagement, no scrolling, no obsessing over responses went out the goddamn window.
I chose the most innocuous post to check. The one with Ralph sleeping on my bed, captioned “Small-town life comes with built-in companions. #NewBeginnings #FreshStart.”
Most comments were harmless.
So cute! Love this for you! That orange boy is everything!
But then I saw it.
Pink looks better in your hair than blue did. Though I miss the way you’d twist it around your finger when you talked to me through the camera. I miss watching you sleep, princess.
I’m shocked my legs didn’t give out when I read it. I’m proud of how I handled myself in front of Saint and Ivy even though it took all my energy to keep it together until I climbed up the stairs to my apartment.
I deleted the comment instantly, of course, but it doesn’t matter. He’s out. He’s seen my new content. He’s found me again despite the multiple court orders telling him to fuck all the way off.
My chest constricts as I sink onto the edge of the bed. How? I’ve been so careful. No location tags, no identifiable landmarks. Nothing to connect me to Falcon Haven.
Yet somehow, he knows about my pink streak. Knows I’ve changed it.
But it might not be him. It could be a troll, fully aware of my situation and using it for clout. Trolls study influencers like specimens, learning our histories, our traumas, and crafting messages designed to destabilize us. It’s sick, but it’s not necessarily him.
Ralph pads over and butts his head against my elbow, purring.
“You’re right,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears. “I’m spiraling. ”
I should call the jail and make sure he’s still there. Or call Brenda and ask her to check for me. Get off social media entirely, find a new job, a new country.
God, I used to love what I did. I found joy in everything that came with becoming an influencer: the planning, the editing, the content, the connections, and yes, the PR packages were never unwelcome.
I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Not to mention what it did for my social anxiety and how I blossomed when I realized I could build a career around something I was naturally good at despite how much I fumbled through face-to-face conversations.
I found confidence. I found happiness. I found belonging.
My hands won’t stop shaking. The screen illuminates again, showing a text from Saint.
Still on for 7?
I stare at the message, my throat closing. I should cancel. Pack my things. Run again.
But I’m so tired of running.
I tap out a reply: Yes. See you then.
Ralph meows, clearly judging my life choices.
“It’s just dinner,” I tell him, though my heart pounds like I’m confessing to murder. “I’ll be in public. Surrounded by people. He’ll be busy in the kitchen.”
My phone vibrates again with a notification from Instagram. I swipe it away without looking, then power off the device completely.
I need a shower. I need to wash off the trail dust and the sensation of Saint’s arms around me and the lingering fear that someone dangerous knows where I am.
The bathroom is tiny, but the water pressure is surprisingly good. I stand under the hot spray for a long time, letting it sluice over my skin, trying to wash away the residue of fear .
It doesn’t work.
The comment is seared into my brain, a brand mark over the fragile serenity I’d started to build.
Pink looks better.
I miss watching you sleep, princes s.
I scrub at my hair with too much force, the pink a mocking reminder of my attempt to reclaim some part of myself.
After toweling off, I stare at my reflection. The woman looking back is a mess. Dark circles under her eyes, a tremor in her lips she can’t quite control.
This is not the picture of a woman about to have a casual dinner date. But I promised Ivy. I promised Saint. And a small, treacherous part of me wants to go. Wants to sit in the warm glow of C’est Trois and see Saint in his element.
I choose a simple black dress and spend too long on my makeup. Ralph watches me from the doorway, his green eyes unnervingly perceptive.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him, stepping into the new suede cowboy boots I bought yesterday. “I’m fine.”
He blinks slowly, unconvinced.
Grabbing my keys and a small clutch, I take a deep breath. The lock clicks behind me, a small sound in the quiet of the stairwell.
One foot in front of the other. That’s all it takes.
The walk to C’est Trois is only a few blocks, but every shadow seems to lengthen, every passerby feels like a potential threat. By the time I reach the restaurant, my palms are sweating.
The front windows glow gold, condensation fuzzing the edges of the glass. Inside, the tables are half full. I hover on the sidewalk, half lit by the interior, half hidden by the shadow of the awning. My reflection stares back: tall, a little haunted, armed with lipstick.
Saint clocks me through the glass before I make it to the door. He looks up from a conversation with a server, his head tilting a fraction.
In that second, the world slows. That impossible blue collides with my gaze, and I’m unmoored, tossed back into last week’s perfection: his body pinning mine to the mattress, his mouth on my scars. Holding me in place.
Saint is the first to compose himself, but I can tell that my appearance has knocked his evening off its axis.
C’est Trois is warm and bright inside, and the host stand is operated by the same blonde from my last visit. She spots me when I walk in, pasting on a smile and asking, “Table for…?”
“Toussaint.”
The name sticks against the back of my throat.
Her gaze flicks over my outfit and hair. “Right. He said you’d be joining him. This way.”
She leads me past the open kitchen, where Saint stands at the pass. He’s in chef blacks tonight, sleeves rolled, arms tense with veins cresting under his tattoos.
When the hostess says, “Your guest is here, sir,” he looks up.
His blue pulls me under again.
Saint gestures me into the kitchen. “Right on time. Ivy’s waiting at the private table in here.”
It takes a minute to process that he’s inviting me into the heart of his domain. Willingly.
I’d expected a quiet table in the corner, maybe his subtle wave from the kitchen, but not this.
Not the heat, the clang, the rush of a dinner shift in progress.
Not the wall of noise and scented steam and the sudden, total attention of every cook on the line as the boss’s “guest” trails in wearing a dress that now feels absurdly fancy for the occasion.
Saint’s kitchen is a different ecosystem than the dining room, and he moves through it with the animal grace of someone who isn’t thinking about motion at all. Someone who is, in fact, the sole gravitational force in the room.
The VIP table sits in an alcove at the back of the kitchen, a polished cherry wood table for four gleaming under a single copper pendant light, while the rest of the kitchen blazes under industrial fluorescents.
A white linen tablecloth, crystal glasses, and heavy silverware create the impression of a dining room luxury, but with the unmistakable thrill of being behind the velvet rope.
Ivy waves frantically from her seat, half standing on her chair until Saint gives her a look that settles her back down. I notice a small placard on the table: RESERVED.
“The chef’s table,” Saint says, pulling out a chair for me. “Usually booked months in advance.”
“Or years, depending on who you are,” calls another chef without looking up from the salmon he’s plating.
“Mayor Dillinger’s still mad about tonight,” adds another cook, eyebrows waggling suggestively in my direction.
Saint’s jaw tightens. “Focus on your stations.”
“You denied the mayor?” I ask, sliding into my seat.
Saint stays close enough to catch his scent, smoke and salt, appearing at my elbow. “I told him we were fully committed.”
The word “committed” does something stupid to my pulse. I reach for my water glass to have something to do other than melt.
My phone vibrates against my hip in my purse. The sound is barely audible over the kitchen noise, but I feel it. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession .
“You good?” Saint asks, catching my slight frown.
“Fine.”
But the buzzing continues. Insistent. Too many for Brenda. Too aggressive for anyone who has my number with my permission.
Saint’s eyes narrow, cataloging my expression with the same care he applies to a delicate sauce. He slides into the seat across from me.
“Miss Wrenley looks like a princess,” Ivy declares, bouncing slightly in her seat. She’s wearing a blue dress with mismatched socks, one striped, one polka-dotted.
“You’re shaking,” he says to me quietly.
“Am I?” I force a laugh. “Just hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Which consisted of a handful of trail mix.
A server appears with bread and a tiny dish of sea-salted butter. Ivy dives in like she’s been fasting for days. I focus on buttering a roll, hoping the ritual will steady my hands, but the trembling only gets worse. Saint’s gaze drills into me, more relentless than the kitchen’s heat.
“Wine?” the server asks, voice pitched to a hush. “Chef selected a white for the first course.”
Saint nods. “Thank you, Mags.”
The wine is poured. I clutch the glass, letting condensation chill my fingers, but it does nothing to slow the boiling under my skin.
Ivy’s feet swing below her chair. “Miss Wrenley, guess what I drew in art today?”
“What?”
She grins. “A cat superhero who saves everybody from mean people. Her name is Captain Ralph.”
Saint’s attention flicks to Ivy long enough to give her an indulgent quirk of his mouth, then right back to me .
“You’re not eating,” he says, so low only I can hear.
The kitchen is a wall of noise and light behind us: the percussion of pans, the hiss of oil, and the overlapping, urgent language of a line under pressure.
I force myself to focus and be present, but the phone keeps going. My skin crawls with a familiar dread.
“Your phone’s having a party,” Ivy observes.
“It’s probably work.” I fish it out, planning to silence it, but the preview on the screen stops my blood.
Pink looks better than blue, but I miss watching you twist it around your finger when you...
No. No, no, no.
My vision starts to tunnel.
“Miss Wrenley?” Ivy’s voice sounds far away. “You look sick.”
I stand too fast. The chair tips. Saint pushes to his feet.
“Bathroom,” I croak out, already moving.
But my legs aren’t working right. The kitchen tilts. Too many faces, too many strangers, any one of them could be him.
I make it to the bathroom, barely. Lock the door. Slide down the wall.
My chest constricts. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. The walls are too close, and he’s out there somewhere, watching, waiting?—
I can’t get enough air. I press my face against my knees, palms over my ears, but the phone keeps vibrating, little seismic shudders against my thigh. I want to throw it, smash it, flush it, but my hands won’t unclench.
A knock on the door nearly stops my heart.
“Wrenley?”
Saint’s voice is muffled but unmistakable, deep and sharp with worry .
I want to answer, but my throat is a pinhole. The only sound I can make is a wheeze.
I scrunch my eyes shut and try to remember what my therapist said— slow inhale, hold, slow exhale —but the world narrows to buzzing and Saint’s voice and the memory of a stranger’s hands on my skin.
“Wrenley.” The knob rattles. “Say something.”
Nothing comes out of my throat, though I try. Not even a squeak. I can’t. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but drown in the riptide of my panic.
“If you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”
Please, no.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to be the girl who needs rescuing. I don’t want to be a burden or a story or another fucking problem for him to solve. I want to get up, splash water on my face, and walk out like none of this ever happened.
There’s a pause, then a heavy thud. Then another. The hinges shudder, paint cracking at the seams.
“Chef, you can’t?—”
A woman’s voice from outside, maybe the server, maybe the manager.
“Move,” Saint orders. He doesn’t shout, but the force of it vibrates through the floor.
The door shudders in its frame, then bursts open with a splintering sound. Saint fills the doorway, wild and unholy and more terrifying than the demon he was accused of being by every critic who ever set foot in this kitchen.