“But if you want,” she says, not slowing, “I could kill?—”
Tara blinks. “Excuse me?”
“—some time helping you pack,” Sierra finishes, tossing it over her shoulder as she heads for the stairs.
Her hot little ass disappears up the landing before my brain catches up.
Of course she timed that drive-by assassination perfectly.
But what grabs me is the way she moves—light, steady, no trace of yesterday’s hurt dragging behind her.
She looked at me in the darkroom and chose me.
And seeing her now, bright with purpose and not even a little bit sad…
Christ, it steadies something in my chest.
The wound from yesterday isn’t bleeding anymore.
Last night she told me she loved me, and seeing her like this…
It’s proof she meant it.
She’s healing.
We’re healing.
Roman coughs into his fist to hide a laugh. Nolan goes stone still. Caleb wheezes behind me like he’s dying.
Tara inhales sharply. “You can’t keep us here,” shesays quietly. “We’re not your guests. We’re contracted talent.”
“You’re people,” I say. “And you’re on my mountain. And since I haven’t sold out this legacy and run off with the cash just yet, you’re my responsibility and you’re going to adhere to my safety plan. When the county opens the roads, your drivers can dig out their trucks and go. Until then, you’re stuck with us.”
The realization settles over her face in slow motion.
She thought she’d hit upload on my humiliation and drive away before the fallout hit.
Now she’s trapped smack in the center of it. With sixty-four witnesses.
Many of whom are still giving her that cutting, whisper-heavy stare.
Good.
“I understand your position,” Tara says, turning back to me with a brittle little smile. “But if we’re going to be stuck here, my crew has work to do in the meantime. We’ll need access to power, common areas, guest interviews?—”
“You’ll get the same access everyone else has,” I say. “Public spaces, sure. Private rooms, no. No filming without explicit consent. No ambushing people during vulnerable moments. I’m done with that.”
Color rises in her cheeks. “Everett?—”
“You made your choices,” I say, low enough that only she and the guys can hear it. “You turned my family into content. You blindsided my guests. You recorded a private moment when we were alreadyhanging on by a thread. Now you get to sit here and live with it until that snow clears.”
She swallows.
For the first time since she drove up the mountain, she looks unsure.
“I’m not going to be cruel to you,” I add. “My grandmother would haunt me if I was. You’ll be fed. Warm. Comfortable. But you won’t get special treatment. And you sure as hell won’t get to dictate how this story ends.”
Something flickers across her expression. Maybe guilt. Maybe self-preservation. Maybe the dawning horror of realizing her edit isn’t the only narrative that exists anymore.
