Page 141 of Only Mine
She gestures to the empty chair across from her. “Five minutes of your time.”
I remain standing. “I’m in the middle of service.”
“Yet here you are.” She takes a deliberate sip of wine. “You should know I’m not typically this accommodating. I canceled my flight to be here.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?”
Brenda studies me with the skillful eye of someone who assesses value for a living. “She deleted the video.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“Do you know what that cost her?” She leans forward, voice dropping. “Three brand deals worth five figures. A cookbook offer. And about ten thousand followers who think she’s ghosting them again.”
My gut twists. “And?”
“And she’s miserable.”
Brenda’s smile drops, revealing genuine concern beneath her polished exterior.
“She’s not the only one,” I mutter, then immediately regret the admission.
Brenda’s eyes sharpen like she’s just spotted prey in tall grass. “Interesting.”
She pulls her phone back up, taps the screen a few times, then slides it across the table. “Look at this.”
I exhale loudly, then end up taking the seat across from her and reaching for the phone.
Reluctantly, my gaze lands on a video of Wrenley in her kitchen. She’s laughing, sunlight catching in her hair as she holds up a mug that says “I’d rather be sleeping.” The caption comically reads:How to pretend you’re a morning person when you’re actually dead inside.
Yet she looks radiant. Healthy. Happy.
I swipe to the next video. Wrenley at the lake, skipping stones with perfect form. Her wide smile is genuine as she celebrates a five-skip throw. The comments below are filled with heart emoji and variations ofshe’s back!
“She seems fine to me,” I say, handing the phone back.
Brenda keeps her phone raised, the paused video of Wrenley jumping in triumph angled at me. “That’s because she’s exceptionally good at her job. Millions of people think she’s thriving. The magic of good content creation.”
I clench, then unclench my jaw. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Do you know what she does before filming these?” Brenda asks, voice deceptively casual.
I don’t answer.
“She sits on her bathroom floor for twenty minutes, practicing her smile in the mirror.” Brenda leans forward, her free hand tapping against the stem of her wineglass.
The revelation punches through me like a fist. I picture Wrenley, my vibrant, chaotic Wrenley, rehearsing happiness in a mirror.
“She used to get up, film, edit, and post, all by 8 a.m.,” Brenda continues, swirling her wine. “When she was in LA, New York, anywhere with a decent following. Now she spends hours on a single video. She keeps deleting takes because her smile doesn’t look genuine.”
“You think that’s my fault?” I ask, my voice scraping against my vocal cords.
She takes a sip, then sets down her glass. “I think you both made choices. But I also think you should know something about her that you clearly don’t understand.”
Brenda leans forward. “I’ve been her agent for two years. I’ve seen her through stalkers, death threats, breakdowns, you name it. But I’ve never seen her quit. Not once. And after what happened with her attacker, most people would’ve disappeared forever. But after taking time to mentally recover, Wrenley refused. Said her community mattered too much.”
I shift uncomfortably, eyes darting toward the kitchen where Eddie’s watching me like I’ve grown a second head, because there’s no way I’m still entertaining someone in the dining room when I’d usually drop a curt reply and then dip.
“She was doing well before Falcon Haven, I won’t lie,” Brenda continues. “But thriving? Not until she came here.”
