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JULIE

Disappointment is manageable. I know disappointment. You can wrap it up in logic, tape it with rationalization, and stack it in the neat storage boxes of your brain, labeled "not this time."

Disillusionment doesn’t fit in boxes. It spills. It sours everything.

It starts as a twist in my stomach, sometime after my third inventory recheck of the supply cabin. I’ve already fixed the typo on the talent show sign-up sheet, restocked the hydration packs, and labeled the gluten-free snack binsagain. It's the kind of work I usually love—order in the chaos. But today, I can’t focus.

Because no matter how many times I rearrange tarps and check solar lantern batteries, I can’t shake the echo of Torack’s voice from this morning.

"You work for me."

Not, “I don’t feel that way.”

Not, “This can’t happen because it isn’t real.”

Just: “You work for me.”

Like that’s all I am.

Like that’s all I ever could be.

It shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does. Because for a minute last night, in that storm-lit quiet, I thought he saw me—not just the efficiency or the binders, butme. The woman beneath the job. The one who wants things. Soft things. Real things.

Now I feel like I was reading a script from the wrong genre.

I step outside the cabin and start walking, half on autopilot. It’s mid-morning, the camp already alive with shouting, hammering, the rhythmic clang of goblin tools and centaur hooves on gravel. It should feel comforting. Familiar. Instead it’s all too loud. Too much.

I pass the conference cabin without really meaning to. It's supposed to be empty—no scheduled meetings till tomorrow’s budget review.

But the door’s open a crack.

And I hear voices.

I shouldn’t stop.

I do.

I shouldn’t eavesdrop.

I definitely do.

“…if we restructure in phases, we’ll be positioned for a full launch by fall.” Renault’s voice. Crisp. Smooth. The audio equivalent of an expensive fountain pen.

Inside, chairs scrape. A glass clinks.

“The community housing component is bloated,” he continues. “It’s costing us more than it’s delivering. What we need is to rebrand the wellness curriculum. More targeted language. Less ‘recovery,’ more ‘optimization.’ We market to exhausted executives and burnt-out mid-tier managers. Fae-run wellness enterprises are the next goldmine.”

“You want to commercialize trauma,” someone says—Dena, I think, her voice tight with unease.

“I want to streamline our purpose,” Renault replies, voice cooling just a touch. “Look, Torack’s heart is in the right place.But he’s not a strategist. He’s a glorified camp counselor with delusions of nonprofit grandeur. We need vision. We needstructure.”

“You mean control,” Dena mutters.

I hold my breath.

Renault presses on, unbothered. “I’ve already drafted a proposal. The north woods are zoned but underutilized. We build premium lodges. Seclusion. Enchanted spa access. Retreat events. Tie-ins with name brand healing services. Fey-touched energy cleanses. Maybe a licensed nymph running aromatherapy rituals.”

Silence.