Page 74 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

"Are they okay?" I ask, trying to sound casual, but my voice wobbles.

Hank straightens up, his beard still dusted with snowflakes. "Fine," he says, but the word snaps like a branch underfoot. He’s looking at me with those intense gray eyes, and I suddenly feel like I’m the one who’s been dragged in from the cold.

"Ivy Blake," he repeats, and this time I know it’s not affection. His tone is sharp and accusatory.

"Uh, yeah?" I manage, trying to keep my voice steady. "That is me, last I checked."

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, scrolling furiously until he finds what he’s looking for. Then, heholds it out, the screen glaringly bright in the dim cabin. "This is you?" he demands. "This is who you are? Ivy fucking Blake."

I squint at the screen, and my stomach drops like a bad rollercoaster. It’s a video clip from my show, the one where I’m stumbling out of a club with my dress half-undone, laughing like I don’t have a care in the world. "Oh," I say, but it comes out more like a squeak.

He swipes to the next one, then the next. Each image is worse than the last—me dancing on a table, me yelling at a PA, me doing shots in a bikini. All the greatest hits of my fake life, a highlight reel of everything I’m trying to escape.

"This isn’t me," I blurt out, my voice rising in panic. "I mean, it is me, but it’s not who I am."

Hank’s face is unreadable, a mountain carved from stone. "Looks like you to me," he says, and the words are a cold wind cutting straight through me.

"It’s who I played," I insist. "It’s who I was forced to pretend to be. This is why I’m here!"

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with those stormy eyes. I feel like I’m on trial, every silent second stretching into eternity. I try again, desperation creeping into my voice. "I didn’t want any of that. I never did. It’s all just a—a stupid act. None of it’s real."

"Real enough to be on the internet," Hank says, and I flinch like he’s slapped me.

"It’s not who I am," I repeat, softer this time. I’m running out of words, out of ways to make him understand. "I came here to get away from all that. To figure out who I really am."

He finally looks away, and the relief is so intense it’s almost painful. But then he glances back at me, and I see the doubt still lingering there, a stubborn shadow. "And who’s that?" he asks quietly. "Who are you, really?"

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I could tell him, convince him that I’m more than those stupid videos, more than a shallow, ditzy party girl. But all I have is silence.

Hank shakes his head, more sad than angry now. "Your car will be done in a couple days," he says, turning away from me. "You can be on your way."

Hank's words hit me like a gut punch, every syllable a jagged shard of ice driving deeper with each passing second. It’s like he’s shoved his hand into my chest, gripped my heart, and ripped it out in one brutal motion. The sting from his dismissal, the accusation in his voice, makes it impossible to breathe.

I don't even know how to respond to that. My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.On your way.Like I’m some stray animal he’s tossing back out into the cold.

I don’t even realize I’ve backed up until my legs hit the edge of the couch. I sit down hard. But before I can even start to process all that, I hear the door creak open behind me, and I look up to see Wyatt and Holt standing there. The look on their faces is a mix of concern and confusion.

“What’s going on?” Wyatt asks, his voice tight with something that might be anger or maybe just frustration.

Hank’s gaze flicks over to them. He pulls his phone out and tosses it at Wyatt, who only just manages to catch it. “That.”

I watch in horrified silence as Holt leans in so he can watch my highlight reel play out with Wyatt.

“She’s a fake. A liar. A fucking party girl. His voice is low and icy. “This is who she really is. This is the girl you two are so eager to protect.”

"Looks like we missed a hell of a party," Wyatt says, his grin vanishing as he takes in the videos on Hank’s phone. I watch the change in their expression, from concern to confusion.

"So, CG’s got a wild side," he says, but there’s no humor in it. Just disbelief.

I try to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky and wrong. "More like a heavily edited side," I say. "It’s all just for show. None of it’s real."

Wyatt raises an eyebrow, still scrolling through the chaos of my on-screen life. "Looks pretty real to me, City Girl," he says, echoing Hank’s earlier words. It stings just as much the second time.

"It’s not," I insist, my voice climbing in desperation. "It’s just a character. A—a role I had to play."

"And what about now?" Hank demands. "You playing us, too?"

I shake my head, words sticking in my throat. "No," I whisper. "I’m not."

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