Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
RHEA
The afternoon shift at Mountain Mornings ends the way it always does.
I wipe down the espresso machine while Emma counts the register and wonders if we should try a new seasonal drink the next day.
This routine is comforting. It’s a small piece of calm in a world that at times feels too chaotic.
I love these moments—the hum of the café and the clink of the register.
Still, I feel a quiet longing. I catch myself thinking about what else could be out there, what adventures or chances I might be missing.
In these peaceful times, I wonder what it might cost me to keep this simple life.
Is it worth it? I’m so lost in thought, I didn’t notice the black SUVs on Main Street and missed the strangers outside with cameras, ready to break this calm.
“I'm thinking pumpkin spice is overdone,” Emma says, not looking up from her counting. “What about maple cardamom? Or chai apple cider?”
“Both sound amazing,” I reply, hanging up my apron. “Let’s test them tomorrow and see which one the morning crowd prefers?”
I'm reaching for my bag when Emma glances out the window and freezes. “Rhea, wait—”
I'm already pushing through the door, Duke's leash in my hand since I promised to walk him after my shift. The moment I step outside, they descend like vultures.
“Rhea! Rhea! How does it feel to be the woman who saved Gray Garrison?”
The first flash blinds me. Prickles race over my skin, the sensation is shocking. Suddenly, bodies press in from all sides. Cameras and microphones. Too many loud, incessant voices. They all merge into an overwhelming cacophony that slams right into me.
“Is it true you left him to force him into rehab?”
“Did you know he was an addict when you started dating?”
“Are you back together for love or publicity?”
A microphone is shoved into my face so aggressively that it clips my cheek. I stumble backward, but there's another body behind me, another camera, another voice demanding answers to questions that feel like invasions of every level of privacy.
“Please, I need to—” I try to push through, but they're everywhere, a wall of aggressive strangers who smell like cigarettes and desperation.
“Come on, sweetheart, give us something! You're the woman who tamed the wild rock star!”
“Did you use tough love? Threatened to leave if he didn't get clean?”
“How much is the record label paying you for this redemption story?”
The accusation stings. It sends a shock through me.
They think this is all fake, that our relationship and everything we've worked to rebuild is just a publicity stunt.
My heart pounds. Each beat is loud in my ears.
My cheeks burn. My breath comes fast and shallow, as if the air is too thin.
The smell of sweat, perfume, and cigarettes is choking me.
People crowd closer, making it harder to breathe.
Duke starts barking. His sharp yelps match my panic.
“Back off!” I manage to say, but my voice is lost in the chaos.
A hand wraps around my arm—not gently, but with the demanding grip of someone who thinks they're entitled to my attention. “Just one photo, honey. One photo of Gray Garrison's savior—”
“GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING HANDS OFF OF HER!”
The voice that cuts through the chaos is unlike anything I've ever heard from Leslie. Gone is the eccentric interior designer with his expressive vocabulary and dramatic gestures. In his place stands a man I don't recognize—six feet six inches of pure, protective rage.
Leslie barrels through the crowd like the linebacker he was in a past life, his designer clothes doing nothing to diminish the very real threat in his posture.
He positions himself between me and the cameras, and suddenly I understand why people sometimes cross the street when they see large men walking toward them. Leslie is terrifying.
“Every single one of you parasites has exactly three seconds to back the fuck off before I start remembering my boxing days,” he growls, and his voice carries the kind of authority that makes people listen. “And trust me, I was known for my aggressive defensive tactics.”
Leslie glances over at a photographer who has been whispering instructions into a headset, aware that this is more orchestrated than a random frenzy.
It’s vultures with a plan. “Do you think you're clever with your setups and code words? You've picked the wrong day and the wrong person. Y’all are going to fuck around and find out, you hear me say?”
“Hey man, we're just doing our job—”
“Your job?” Leslie wheels on the photographer who spoke, and the man takes a step back. “Your job is harassing women on the street? Your job is a physical assault? Because I'm fairly sure that's called a crime, not a career.”
He wraps a protective arm around my shoulders, using his body as a shield. “We're leaving. Anyone who follows us, anyone who takes another photo, anyone who so much as breathes in her direction is going to discover exactly how much damage a former boxer can do to expensive camera equipment.”
“You can't threaten us! We'll sue!”
Leslie's laugh is cold and utterly unlike his usual warm chuckle. “Please do. I'd love to explain to a judge how you were physically assaulting my friend. I'm sure the security cameras from every business on this street caught the whole thing. Mrs. Chen is calling the police right now.”
As if on cue, I hear sirens in the distance. The paparazzi exchange glances, and several start backing toward their vehicles.
“Move,” Leslie commands, guiding me through the path that's opened. “Duke, come.”
Duke follows immediately, still growling at anyone who gets too close. Leslie maintains his protective stance all the way to his house, only relaxing once we're inside with the door locked behind us.
“Are you hurt?” He immediately shifts back into the Leslie I know, his hands gentle as he checks my face where the microphone hit. “Those bastards. I cannot believe they touched you.”
“I'm okay,” I manage, though my hands are shaking. “Leslie, I've never seen you like that.”
“Most people haven't. I save that version of myself for special occasions.” He guides me to his kitchen, where he grabs me a bottle of water from his fridge. “Hydration first, then we're getting you to Gray. He needs to know what happened.”
“It's going to be everywhere,” I realize with growing horror. “Photos of me, stories about us, probably multiple videos of the whole thing.”
“Let them publish it. Let the world see what vultures they truly are.” Leslie's phone is already in his hand, fingers flying across the screen. “I'm texting Gray now. We'll sneak out the back way to get to the studio.”
Within minutes, we make our way through Leslie's back garden, through the gate he had installed for exactly this kind of situation, and down the alley that leads to Belvedere Street. My phone has been buzzing nonstop, but I can't bring myself to look at it.
“When I was at the height of my career in New Orleans,” Leslie says as we walk, “I had a client who was being stalked by paparazzi. They made her life hell for three months, all because she was dating an actor. She ended up moving to Canada just to get away from them.”
“Is that what's going to happen to us? Are they going to destroy our lives here?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it. This village protects its own, and you and Gray are ours now.” Leslie is fiercer than I’ve ever seen.
The studio door flies open before we reach it, and Gray is there, his face a storm of emotions that run across his features—anger, worry, and something that might be guilt.
“Rhea,” he breathes, pulling me into his arms so tightly I can barely breathe. “Leslie told me what happened. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.”
“It's not your fault,” I say against his chest, but even as I say it, I'm wondering if that's true. This is what comes with dating someone famous. This is the price of loving Gray Garrison.
Inside the studio, the rest of the band is gathered, all wearing expressions of concern and anger.
“We saw the footage. Those dicks were live-streaming it. They were completely out of line.” Andrew fumes.
“How did they even find us? We've been so careful,” Parker asks.
“Someone had to leak it. We've been here for months without any problems, and suddenly they know exactly where to find us?” Zep is beyond angry.
Gray is still holding me, his body vibrating with barely controlled rage. “I'm going to kill them. Every single one of them.”
“No,” I say, pulling back to look at him. “You're not. You're going to stay calm and not give them any more ammunition.”
“They hurt you—”
“They scared me,” I correct. “There's a difference. And Leslie handled it.”
“Damn right I did,” Leslie says, settling into his favorite chair with the satisfaction of someone who's won a particularly important battle. “Though I may have channeled my inner Liam Neeson a bit too enthusiastically.”
“How bad is it online?” I ask, finally brave enough to consider the digital aftermath.
Cody, ever the social media expert, is already scrolling through his phone. “It's... mixed. The footage of them mobbing you makes them look terrible. But there are also about fifty articles already about 'Gray Garrison's mystery woman' and 'the woman who saved rock's bad boy.'“
The woman who saved him. As if I'm not a person with my own identity, my own life, my own dreams?
I'm just an accessory to Gray's redemption story.
This label feels like a shackle, reducing me to a role I never intended to play.
I gather my thoughts and turn to the band, feeling a surge of determination.
“For the record,” I say, my voice clear and deliberate amidst the heavy silence, “I am not Gray's savior.
I'm his partner in all this. We saved ourselves.
We love each other, and that's the story that needs telling.”
“I can't do this,” I say quietly. At first, my words slip out so softly I almost wonder if I’ve really spoken.
The surprise hits me next. Then the weight and finality of what I'm confessing crash in, sending a jolt of fear through me. The room’s tension snaps from shocked concern to silent alarm, my own confusion joining it.
Gray's face drains of color. “What do you mean?”
“I mean... I love our life here. I love the quiet mornings at the coffee shop, the way everyone knows each other, the peace we've found.
And now that's gone. They're going to keep coming, aren't they?
More photographers, more questions, more invasion of the sanctuary we've found for ourselves here.”
“We'll figure it out,” Gray says desperately. “We'll hire security, or—”
“Gray.” I touch his face gently. “This is what your life is. This is what success looks like for you. And I'm proud of you, I'm so proud of what you've accomplished. But I don't know if I'm made for this.”
The studio falls silent, except for the hum of the equipment. I can feel everyone holding their breath, waiting to see what happens next.
“You're stronger than you think. I saw you out there. You were scared, but you didn't break. You stood your ground until I got there,” Leslie says softly.
“But why should I have to?” The question comes out harsher than I intend. “Why should anyone endure that just because they love someone who makes music?”
Gray looks like I've stabbed him straight through the heart, and part of me wants to take it back immediately. But another part, the part that's still shaking from the encounter, needs him to understand.
It's as if time itself is ticking, reminding me of the urgency and the need for clarity. My head swirls with thoughts and conflicts. But amid the confusion, a sense of resolve begins to build. I know I cannot ignore what happened, and I cannot let fear dictate my future. The fear of losing what Gray and I have formed together won’t leave me.
“I need some time,” I say, steady and intentional.
“To think, to figure out if this is something I can manage long-term.” I imagine spending the days ahead sitting by the lake to reflect, talking to trusted friends like Leslie for guidance, and even journaling to sort through my feelings.
The path isn't clear yet. But I am sure I need to face these questions—alone, for now—even if only for a short while.
“Rhea—”
“I'm not leaving,” I assure him quickly, my voice steady. “I'm not running away. But I am choosing to confront this and decide, for myself, what kind of life I want. I need to process this. To understand what being with you publicly really means.”
Gray nods, though I can see how much it costs him. “Whatever you need. Whatever time you need. Just... please don't shut me out.”
“Never,” I promise, and I mean it.
As I sit in the studio, surrounded by our closest friends, who've become like family, with Leslie standing guard like an elegant bouncer and Duke pressed against my leg for comfort, I realize that the paparazzi were wrong about one thing.
I'm not the woman who saved Gray Garrison.
We saved each other.
Leslie offers to escort me home amid all the chaos still lingering on Main Street.
We leave the Belvedere Street Studio and head to my apartment, where I can sit in my favorite chair and mull over everything that’s happened to shake my world today.
Even through the chaos, I continue to hope that peace and endless possibilities might still be within our reach.
My resolve begins to outweigh uncertainty.
Whether or not love and strength can shield us from a world that refuses to look away, I know one thing for certain—whatever comes next, we will face it together.