I watch her with a side-eye as she squeals—yes, squeals—and stares at the photos on her screen, zooming in and out like she's examining evidence at a crime scene.
"Perfect," she declares, sounding extremely pleased with herself. "You look so grumpy in this one. Like someone stole your motorcycle. I love it. Definitely keeping this forever."
"Great," I mutter. "Thrilled to contribute to your blackmail collection."
"Collateral collection," she corrects cheerfully.
But seeing her this happy—genuinely happy over something as stupid as a photo of me blushing—makes my heart skip a beat despite my mock annoyance.
That smile on her face, the way her eyes light up with genuine delight, the pure joy in her expression. When was the last time someone looked that delighted over something involving me?
Even if it was unintentional and embarrassing?
I try to subdue a smile as I look back at the road. Fail completely. My mouth twitches upward despite my best efforts.
The landscape continues rolling past—more fields, a farmhouse with Christmas decorations twinkling against the gray sky, a herd of cattle huddled together against the cold. The clouds are getting progressively darker, more ominous. We probably have an hour, maybe ninety minutes before whatever storm is brewing decides to make our lives difficult. Need to shop fast and get back.
"Why don't you go live?" I suggest, breaking the comfortable silence that's settled between us.
She looks up from her phone where she's been scrolling through something. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"Go live on Instagram or TikTok or whatever platform you use for your content," I explain, keeping my eyes on the road. "Our contract officially started yesterday when I signed those papers. Charlotte's going to expect you to be making content regularly now. Building engagement. Growing your audience."
"But she knows I was hurt," Reverie protests. "She overheard me falling and passing out when you guys came to deliver the contract to my apartment. The whole concussion thing."
"You already informed her you're better now," I counter. "Told her the doctor cleared you. So from a business perspective, she's going to expect content. Probably sooner rather than later. Christmas is coming fast and the twelve-day campaign starts soon, right?"
Reverie gawks at me, her mouth falling open slightly in realization. "Oh my god. You're absolutely right. I haven'tposted anything substantial in days. My engagement is probably tanking. The algorithm hates inconsistency."
Then nervousness crosses her features. She fidgets with her phone, running her thumb along the case. Her confidence from thirty seconds ago evaporating like morning frost.
"I probably don't look good enough though," she says, her voice going small and uncertain. "My clothes aren't the prettiest. They're old and worn. And what if Evergreen Media expects me to have the latest fashion? Designer outfits? Professional styling? I don't have any of that. What if people comment about how shabby I look? What if?—"
"You look perfect," I interrupt firmly, meaning every single word. "Exactly like that. Natural and genuine and real. That's what people connect with. Not some overly styled, fake version."
"But—"
"Just be your cheery self," I continue. "Like you were in the bookstore when Grayson met you. Enthusiastic about everything. Excited to share things. That energy is what draws people in."
She blinks.
"How do you know about the bookstore?"
"Grayson talked about it," I admit. "Said he met an Omega who lit up the whole store with her enthusiasm. Got so excited about books that he ended up buying half a dozen he hadn't planned on purchasing. Said you were fun. Made the whole experience memorable instead of just another errand."
Reverie looks surprised.Touched.Like she doesn't quite know what to do with the compliment.
"Oh," she says softly.
I can see her trying not to overthink it. Trying to believe me instead of letting that voice in her head—the one that sounds suspiciously like her ex-pack—tell her she's not good enough, not pretty enough, not interesting enough to be on camera.
I wish I could reach into her head and delete every terrible thing they told her. Every criticism. Every insult. Every moment they made her feel less than. She deserves better than carrying their poison around.
"Okay," she says finally, taking a steadying breath. "Okay. I'll do it. But we have to have a plan first!"
"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely curious about what elaborate plan she's concocting in that creative mind of hers.
"Think of this like a cozy romance novel!" She's animated now, gesturing with one hand while the other holds her phone. "I don't know exactly how to explain it, but everyone has roles! Character archetypes! We need to fit into them for the content to be interesting!"
