We walked a half block in silence.
Then Roan said, “You shouldn’t have called the press.”
Rhett didn’t even look at him. “I asked a question.”
“You started a fire.”
“Which was already lit.” Rhett finally turned to face him, steps slowing. “You really think Marchand wasn’t planning this already? That Wrenwasn’tgoing to get dragged into it no matter what?”
“I think making it worse didn’t help her.”
“Yeah? And hiding away in your fucking corner does?”
Roan stopped walking.
Dead stop.
The two of them faced each other like opposing lines on the ice, shoulders squared, postures tight. People passed by without stopping, but the tension crackling between them was magnetic—pulling, stretching, sharp.
“She set boundaries,” Roan said, voice low. “Werespectthem.”
“And if respecting them means letting her get eaten alive by press, or Beckett, orMarchand?” Rhett’s voice dropped too. Not volume, but his tone. Rough, raw. “You gonna keep standing back and letting her handle it all alone?”
“She’salwayshandled it,” Roan snapped.
“Yeah,” I said, stepping between them before they could escalate further. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
They both looked at me.
Not angry.
Worse.
Guilty.
Roan turned first and started walking again. Slower this time.
I didn’t move. Just stood there with Rhett while Roan created distance like he always did—quiet, cold, deliberate.
“He’s not wrong,” I said eventually. “You’re not either.”
Rhett made a frustrated sound. “Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”
I didn’t answer.
Not right away.
Because the truth was,I didn’t know.
Wren Foster was the most self-contained person I’d ever met. Not just cool under pressure—untouchable. She handled interviews like combat. Skated around flirtation like it was sport. Shut down rumors with a raised brow and the threat of a headline no one wanted to explain.
And her scent?
Controlled.
Perfectly modulated.
Never inviting. Never angry. Just… sharp. Clean. Professional.
