Page 107 of Undone By The Mountain Daddies

I peel the covers away from my body and get out of bed. I’m sweating like a whore in Sunday school. Like I’m back on that red carpet watching Holden on one knee for Vanessa or Valentina or whatever her name is.

The next time I attend a red-carpet event—if the organizer will even have me, all eyes will be on me. Sienna Lane—Hollywood’s biggest disgrace.

Before all of this mess, I had nothing but good press.

“Sienna? Are you still there?” Jules asks.

“Yes,” I reply, throwing my stuff into my bag. “I’m packing.”

“You’re coming back tonight?”

“I can’t put this off any longer.” I stuff the last of my clothes into the bag and haul the straps over my shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I end the call with what feels like a boulder in my stomach.

They can’t do this to me. If my career is ending, I’m doing it on my own terms.

Besides, I will not be kicked out of Hollywood and leave everyone thinking I spiraled out.

I tiptoe into the living room, the fire barely lit now. I rip a page out of Henry’s homeschooling notebook and find a pen, sitting on the couch to scribble out a quick note.

It’s short and sweet. I’ll be back.

And I have to go now before the guys walk around shirtless in the morning and convince me to stay again. They know I’m not going anywhere when they’re barely dressed like that.

I decide to add a little more so they don’t worry.

“I have to take care of some things in LA, but I’ll be back. I promise. And I always keep my promises.”

They deserve so much more than that, but that’s all I have in me right now. I sign the note and leave it on the kitchen countertop.

Once I settle these accusations and reclaim my life, I’ll be coming back up here. For how long? Who knows.

All I know is that being up here feels right. It feels authentic to me—real. There’s no invisible wall between me and the guys.

Surface-level garbage doesn’t exist up here. No celeb gossip. No questions about whether I’m getting Botox at twenty-six years old.

No Pilates. But why would I need workout classes when I have these guys testing my flexibility and stamina every day?

I grab my Dior heels, abandoned with all the boots next to the door, and slip them on. Immediately, I lose my balance, almost stumbling into the chair and waking up the entire cabin. I grab onto the arm of the couch just in time.

I shut the front door behind me and sigh into the night. The cold air wraps around me, but I don’t mind the chill. It’s easing my anxiety, calming my overthinking brain. Even just thinking about driving back to LA has my stomach lurching. So much traffic. So many red lights. Ugh.

I start walking to my car, which takes twice as long in these heels. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve forgotten how to walk in anything other than tennis shoes or work boots.

I unlock the Bentley and sit in the car for a few minutes, trying to gather the courage to drive off.

I run my hands over the steering wheel, already missing the smell of burning wood. It’s such an earthy scent. But not as earthy as male pheromones. You can’t get any closer to nature than that.

I suck in a sharp breath, grip the steering wheel, and tell myself I can do this. But nothing about LA feels like home anymore.

But I know I have to go back and clear some things up. I have the power to decide what everyone’s final impression of me will be. Nobody can take that away from me.

This one’s for Grammy.

And with that, I take a deep breath…

And step on the gas.