I hate her. I hate this. I hate that her entire aura smells like gold-plated conflict. I hate that Caleb thought this was a good idea, I hate that I agreed to stay, and I especially hate that I'm now about to be interrogated by a woman whose entire career is built on exposing people's worst moments for ratings.
“Come on.” Tara links her arm through mine like we're old friends. “Let's chat. Just two women talking about history and architecture. Nothing scary.”
Her camera crew drifts in behind us like sharks scenting blood.
I catch Everett's eye as I'm led away. His expression is carefully blank, but I can read the tension in the set of his shoulders, the clench of his hands at his sides.
Be carefulhangs in his eyes, unspoken but screaming.
Preservation and progress, apparently on the same team for this impending shit show.
Too late for careful. I stopped being careful eleven years ago.
Tara guides me toward a corner of the great room where her team already sets up lighting—a ring light for that soft, flattering glow that makes everyone look trustworthy and exposed at the same time.
I settle into the chair across from her, spine straight,hands folded in my lap like a woman with absolutely nothing to hide.
Lies. All lies. But well-practiced ones.
“So… Everything about her is curated: the smile, the posture, the pauses. It’s not fake—it’s worse than that. It’s flawless.
And somehow, that makes her even harder to trust.
“Tell me about your connection to Morgan Lodge. How far back does it go?”
All the way back to when I was naive enough to think it could last, and he was dumb enough to believe I could do no wrong.
“My brothers have been friends with Everett since childhood,” I say instead. “The Barrett family has been coming to the lodge for three generations. My grandmother actually met my grandfather here during a ski weekend in 1962.”
“How romantic.” Tara leans in, tablet balanced on her knee. “Love stories that start in places like this—there's something almost fated about it, don't you think? The mountain. The snow. Two people finding each other against all odds.”
I keep my expression neutral. Barely. “It's a beautiful setting. People have been falling in love here for a hundred years.”
“And you?” Her eyes sharpen, just slightly. “Any romantic history with the lodge?”
The question does more damage than a steel-toed boot to the forehead.
For a fraction of a second, I'm seventeen again, withEverett's arm around me, believing nothing could touch us as long as we had this.
“I'm the preservation specialist.” I let a small smile lift the corner of my mouth. “My romance is with architecture.”
Tara doesn't smile back.
She tilts her head and waits me out like a cat deciding whether to kill the mouse or just psychologically ruin its week.
“That's a lovely line,” she says. “Very quotable. Almost rehearsed.” She taps her pen against her tablet. “But I'm asking aboutyou, Sierra. A woman doesn't look at a window seat the way you’ve always looked at that one because ofarchitecture.”
A hot warning buzz fills my ears. “I'm not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do.” She uncrosses her legs, leans forward. “That alcove. The display case. You touched the ledge like you were saying goodbye to someone. Not something.Someone.”
Cool. There goes the oxygen. Guess we’re doing this.
“It's a historically significant space,” I manage. “Any preservationist would?—”
“Document it thoroughly. Yes, you mentioned.” Tara waves a hand, dismissing the deflection. “Let me try a different angle. Your brothers all left Ridgewood, but you stayed.”
“My father needed help after my mother passed.Someone had to?—”
