Behind me, I hear one of Tara's cameramen mutter to his colleague, “You getting this? The crowd shots are going to be brutal.”
“Oh yeah. This is gold. Tragic, beautiful gold.”
I want to reconsider my earlier restraint from turning around to stab each of them.
Preferably with generic ink, made in a country with loose regulations.
I want to scream that this content matters, that history matters, that not everything has to be flashy and viral and optimized for engagement.
Instead, I smile brighter and move on to the next stop.
The remaining tour lurches along like a wounded animal. Emily's grandparents bail at the halfway point, citing the cold. Emily practically sprints back to the lodge, already posting her own review—a series of skull emojis followed by “heritage walks are where fun goes to die.”
I finish the route with two people: Harold's wife (who came back after locating his inhaler) and a quiet man in his sixties who actually seems interested in the architectural details.
“That was lovely, dear,” Harold's wife says when we return to the lodge. “Very educational.”
Educational. The death knell of entertainment.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”
She pats my arm with the gentle condescension of someone who's about to tell you that your casserole was “interesting.” “You have such passion. It's just...” She glances around, making sure no one's listening. “Maybe next time, less about the foundations?”
Ma’am, I will bury you under a foundation.
“More about the romance.”
“The... romance?”
“You know.” She waggles her eyebrows in a way that is deeply unsettling on a woman her age. “The love stories. The scandal. The handsome Morgan men.”
She winks at me—actually winks—and toddles off to find Harold.
I stand there, frozen, my carefully prepared index cards clutched in my hand like the world's most useless security blanket.
This was supposed to be my thing. The one area where I could contribute without anyone questioning my motives or my presence. The one place where being Sierra Barrett, preservation nerd, was actually an asset.
And I bombed it.
I bombed it so hard that a travelblogger is currently telling her fifty thousand followers that this festival is a failure.
I'm still standing there, spiraling, when I hear Roman's voice from inside the lodge.
“We need to talk.”
Through the window, I catch him pulling Everett aside, their heads bent together in urgent conversation. Caleb and Nolan drift over, forming a tight cluster of Barrett brothers plus one Morgan, and even from here I can read the tension in their shoulders.
I slip inside, hovering at the edge of the great room, close enough to hear but not close enough to be part of the conversation.
Story of my life.
“Seven people,” Roman says, rubbing the back of his neck like the number physically hurts him. “Seven. And one of them was asleep.”
Caleb winces. “I saw the post.” He turns his phone so Everett and Nolan can see the screen. “‘Watching paint dry would be more thrilling.’ It’s already got three hundred likes.” He glances toward the window as if he hopes I didn’t hear that. “Sierra worked her ass off. People on the internet can be—” He cuts himself off. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s been twenty minutes,” Nolan says quietly. “That… that’s not good velocity.” He doesn’t look smug about it. He looks worried. For the lodge. For me.
Roman blows out a breath, pacing a short line in front of the fireplace. I’ve seen this once before. Back then, he was trying to solve a problem that feels too bigto hold. “We can’t afford this. The whole point was to get people excited, fill rooms, sell the festival. Heritage walks alone aren’t doing that.”
