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JULIE

D isappointment 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 bins again .

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, but me . 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 need structure .”

“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.

Then: “And what about the existing programming? The kids? The veterans? The rebuilding of families?”

“We keep enough to maintain optics. Press-friendly photos. A few scholarships. Maybe a once-a-month campfire memory circle. Everything else pivots upscale.”

Another pause.

“Torack will never agree to this,” Dena says finally.

“Then we make sure he’s too distracted to notice,” Renault replies smoothly. “Let the human keep him occupied. She’s cute. Competent. That clipboard obsession can be weaponized. Keep her pointed at checklists and she won’t see the big picture.”

I feel my face go hot.

And then cold.

My fingers tighten around the edge of my clipboard until the plastic creaks.

They’re not just replacing Torack.

They’re using me to do it.

I back away. One step. Two. My boot scuffs a root, and I freeze. But the voices don’t change. They didn’t hear.

By the time I’m halfway back down the trail, my ears are ringing.

Renault sees me as decoration. A functional, tidy distraction. A tool.

And he thinks Torack is disposable.

I should go find Torack right now. I should tell him everything. But a voice in my head stops me—the same one that’s helped me navigate every deadline, every disaster, every board meeting with landmines.

Be smart first. React second.

I turn down a side path and find myself at the entrance of the old amphitheater.

It’s half-eaten by ivy, its stage cracked and warped from disuse.

The tarps that half-covered it after last summer’s windstorm are still flapping weakly in the breeze.

Nobody comes here anymore. It’s too far from the mess hall, too quiet.

Perfect.

I sit on the edge of the broken bench and stare into the trees.

I thought this place was messy but earnest. A scrappy little camp with soul. Now I wonder if I’ve just been rearranging the chairs on a sinking ship, pretending my little systems could float us all.

I want to cry.

But I don’t.

Instead, I let the fury settle in. Because it isn’t true .

The camp is messy, yes—but it’s working . The kids are thriving. The staff are rebuilding lives, not just resumes. Groth taught a dryad to use budgeting software last week. Lillian made friends with a shy minotaur kid yesterday. This place matters .

And Renault wants to slice it up like a real estate parcel and sell it back to the fae and elven elite for twice the price.

Not on my watch.

I stand up, suddenly too full of energy to sit. I pace the overgrown stone steps, breath fast and sharp. My mind’s racing now—thinking in logistics, in plans. Not just reactive. Strategic.

I have eyes on every system in this place. I know who’s loyal. Who’s struggling. I’ve fielded more questions from the counselors and kitchen staff than the board ever has. I know how to organize resistance. Quietly. Cleanly.

I can rally the staff. Get ahead of Renault’s pitch. If we move now—before his proposal goes to vote—we can make it too messy, too public for him to steamroll through.

And if Torack doesn’t believe me? I’ll show him. I’ll put the truth in black and white, line and column, with footnotes and fire.

Because I am not a clipboard with legs.

I’m not a pawn.

And I’m damn sure not his “asset.”

I’m Julie Wren.

And I am going to save this camp.