Page 120 of Only Mine
There’s definitely a story there. “Speaking from experience?”
“We’re not done with you yet.” He squeezes gently. “These videos of yours. Show me.”
I pull out my phone, suddenly self-conscious. “You must’ve researched me before you had me watch Ivy and seen my videos.”
“Only enough to know you weren’t a serial killer.” He points at the phone in my hand. “Show me your favorite one.”
I think about it, sticking my tongue in my cheek. “Okay, but you can’t judge me. This is a recent one from last week.”
The video shows me attempting a “productive morning routine,” but I’m clearly dead inside instead of fully awake.
I make coffee, miss the mug entirely, and just stand there watching it pour onto the counter. Text overlay:Morning routine but make it honest.
I don’t even clean it up, just put the mug under the stream and then drink.
Saint scrolls to the comments, reading aloud. “‘The way you didn’t even flinch when you missed the mug.’ ‘This is the most relatable thing I’ve ever seen at 6 a.m.’ ‘Finally someone who doesn’t pretend mornings are magical.’“
I grab the phone. “No, go to the good ones.”
He scrolls further. “‘Your last fuck flew away and you didn’t even wave goodbye.’“
“That one’s my favorite.” I grin.
Saint looks at me. “Two million people watched you fail at coffee?”
“Someone commented ‘This video made me feel better about eating cereal with a fork because I’m too lazy to wash spoons,’ and honestly, that’s my target audience.”
He hands my phone back. “This is what made you famous?”
“Being a disaster? Yeah, basically.” I set the phone aside.
“Your followers get you,” Saint says quietly.
He reaches out to tuck the pink strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so gentle it makes my eyes burn.
“What changed your mind about returning to social media after what happened in Miami?” he asks, stroking my temple.
Instead of answering right away, I study the rim of my empty wineglass, gathering courage. I’ve been waiting forthis question since the bathroom panic attack. Since he picked up my phone and saw the comments that sent me spiraling.
“When I went into hiding after the attack, I got this email from a girl in Wisconsin. She’d been following me for years. Said she recognized the signs when I disappeared because she’d gone through something similar.” I take a deep breath. “She told me that watching me struggle with anxiety made her feel less alone. That my videos were sometimes the only thing that got her out of bed.”
Saint drops his hand from my temple, giving me the space to continue.
“At first, I thought,great, more pressure. Another person I’ll disappoint when I inevitably break down again.” I laugh, but it’s humorless. “But then I realized, maybe that’s exactly why I should keep going. Not to pretend everything’s perfect, but to show that it’s ... survivable. He took enough from me already. My safety. My privacy. My ability to sleep through the night. I refused to let him take my career, too.”
I wait for Saint’s judgment and the inevitable lecture about priorities, but he does none of those things. He refills my glass without asking, and keeps listening.
“My therapist calls it reclamation,” I continue. “Taking back what was stolen. For some people, that means never going online again. For me, it meant refusing to be silenced.”
Saint drinks from his glass, standing close enough to become a pillar of strength, and I resist leaning into it.
“Your turn,” I manage. “How does someone like you end up here? You could be running kitchens in New York, Miami, anywhere. Instead, you’re in Falcon Haven feeding risotto to a girl who thought pasta water should be cold and dents your fancy cars.”
Saint steps forward, bracing his hands on either side of my hips. “Someone like me?”
“Talented. Trained. Probably have your Michelin stars somewhere in your pocket.” I wave vaguely at his setup. “This kitchen alone costs more than most people’s houses. You’re not some small-town chef who got lucky.”
“You googled me.”
