Chapter 40
Clara
The days after the gallery show feel like stepping into a hurricane I didn’t see coming.
One minute I’m in a gown that makes me feel like a fairy princess with a canary diamond on my finger and Greyson’s mouth on mine in a penthouse that smells like chocolate mousse and impossible happiness.
The next?
We’re back in Woodhaven because Greyson refuses to give the city even one more day to get its claws into us.
Sames.
He flies us back himself—quiet, precise, controlled—like he can outmaneuver the chaos by sheer will.
But you can’t outfly the internet.
By the time the tires touch down in Maine, his phone is already vibrating itself to death inside his pocket.
Texts. Calls. DMs. Emails.
Notifications stacking so fast it looks like a slot machine jackpot.
And mine isn’t much better.
Some reporters recognized me. Knew my blog. My connections.
I don’t even have to open any of it to know the truth.
The Lumberjack Artist is no longer a mystery.
Greyson Cole is trending.
And not in a cute, “oh look, the creative introvert finally got his moment” kind of way.
No.
This is more the hungry, invasive, frothing kind of way.
The kind that treats human beings like content.
Like prey.
The headlines write themselves.
BILLIONAIRE RECLUSE REVEALED AS VIRAL LUMBERJACK ARTIST.
WHO IS GREYSON COLE?
THE WOMAN IN THE YELLOW DRESS—RICH FIANCéE OR PUBLICITY STUNT?
IS HE THE NEXT ART WORLD PHENOMENON OR A RICH MAN’S HOBBY?
I want to throw up.
My thoughts spiral—what if he hates this?
What if he leaves?
What if he retreats to his cabin and cuts me out?
Greyson takes my phone gently from my hand before I can spiral.
“Don’t,” he says, calm but sharp. “Not yet.”
“Grey—” I start.
He lifts my hand, kisses the ring like it’s a vow.
“They don’t get to have you,” he says. “Not like that.”
I nod, but my chest is tight, because it’s already happening.
By the time we drive back into town, Woodhaven feels different.
Not the place that welcomed me with apple crisp and blunt kindness.
Not the place where people waved from pickup trucks and didn’t care what brand your shoes were.
Now there are unfamiliar cars parked near the Lunchroom.
A couple of strangers lingering by the general store like they’re waiting for a celebrity sighting.
Someone in a puffy jacket holding a camera too expensive for tourist.
And then my phone rings again.
Unknown number.
I let it go to voicemail.
It rings again.
Another unknown number.
Then a text from a number I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN
Hi Clara! Would love to chat about your engagement & Greyson’s incredible story. We can make you both look amazing. Call me! xo
My skin crawls.
We pull into the driveway of my—my—house and I just sit there for a second, staring at the porch light like it’s the only steady thing left in the universe.
“This was supposed to be ours,” I whisper without meaning to.
Greyson’s hand closes over mine on the center console.
“It still is,” he says.
“But they’re everywhere.”
His jaw flexes.
“I know.”
I look at him then—really look.
He’s calm on the outside, but I can see it in his eyes.
That old instinct to vanish.
To retreat up the mountain, lock the gates, disappear into his workshop until the world forgets he exists.
And I can’t blame him.
Because the world doesn’t feel like admiration right now.
It feels like entitlement.
Like people are lining up to take pieces of him.
To demand access.
To turn the man I love into a story they can monetize.
And me?
I’m suddenly not just Clara.
I’m the fiancée.
A plot point.
A photo.
A headline waiting to happen.
My blog inbox is exploding.
My Instagram is full of comments from strangers who have never read a single thing I’ve written but suddenly have strong opinions about my body, my dress, my ring, my right to stand beside him.
Half of them are cruel.
Half of them are creepy.
All of them feel too close.
Greyson leans across the console and presses his forehead to mine.
“You okay, Trouble?” he murmurs.
I swallow hard.
“I’m trying to be,” I whisper.
He kisses me—soft, grounding.
Then he sits back, eyes sharpening with that quiet, lethal focus he gets when he decides something.
“Listen to me, I’ve been hiding for a long time,” he says. “But I’m not hiding from this.”
I blink.
“You’re not?”
His mouth curves, but there’s steel under it.
“No.” He squeezes my hand. “I’m choosing you out loud. Remember? That means I handle the noise.”
“But what if—”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Clara.”
My throat tightens.
“Greyson…”
He brushes his thumb over my knuckles, right over the ring.
“They can push, they can try, they can want my attention all they like,” he says, voice low. “They don’t get it. Not unless I give it. And they sure as hell don’t get to touch you.”
The protectiveness in his voice sends a shiver through me.
Not because it’s possessive in a scary way.
Because it’s devoted.
Anchoring.
Because he’s not saying I own you.
He’s saying I’m with you.
And suddenly, with the chaos pressing in from all sides, that feels like the only thing that matters.
I exhale slowly.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods once.
Then he opens his door and gets out first, scanning the road like a man who’s fought bigger predators than paparazzi.
He comes around to my side and opens my door like I’m precious.
Like I’m his.
And even though the world is trying to turn our love into a spectacle—
The second my hand lands in his?
The intrusion fades.
Just a little.
Enough to breathe.
Enough to step inside our life in Woodhaven and decide, together, what parts of it the world gets to see.
And what parts stay ours.