Twelve years of keeping three stores running. Fixing what breaks, carrying every deadline, making my boss look competent.
Then one thing goes sideways and suddenly I’m the problem.

Because of course I am.
So I do the unthinkable.
I leave.

I drive into the mountains and pay four grand for zen, yoga, and peace. They can lock my phone in a safe. They can lock me in a safe.
For a minute, it works.

Then the storm hits.
The retreat starts to fail. The bridge goes down. The canyon closes.

And the director—the man who sold us serenity—flees.

Now it’s it's me and a handful of women trapped in the woods with shrinking supplies and rising fear.
The only hope is a rumor: a men’s retreat somewhere deeper in the valley. Off-grid. Prepared.
The kind of place run by men who don’t do serenity.
They do survival.

So I go.
And I run straight into Graham Holt.

He’s not gentle.
He’s not warm.
He looks at me once and I feel it. Like he’s already decided I’m not leaving his sight.

Big. Quiet. Unshakeable.
Hands that don’t hesitate.
A voice that hits low and steady, like an order I didn’t realize I wanted to follow.

I came here to breathe again.
Instead, I get trapped in a storm with a man who makes me feel safe… and reckless… and painfully seen.

And the problem with shelter?
Eventually, you start to want it.

Even when the rain stops.