Page 10 of Knot Ruined

Fallon doesn’t even blink. Instead, she tilts her head toward Henry, still standing like a stone sentinel, already scrolling through his phone. “Henry, I want the surveillance video of this entire conversation before we leave. I wouldn’t want to be troubled with ‘wrongful termination.’”

Henry barely nods.

Fallon steps closer, not touching her, just watching. “Three: I am not one to tolerate disrespect. Neither is my family. My name is Fallon Creed.”

The audio catches the tiny, almost pathetic noise Marline makes.

Fallon tsks softly like she’s disappointed. “And what store are we in?” she muses. “Ahh, that’s right. House of Creed.”

Silence.

“Four: I just don’t like you. You’re fired. And I will be blacklisting you from all my stores and subsidiaries.”

“I hope you have the day you deserve.”

A garbled sputter, but Fallon is already turning away.

Henry steps in, muttering something low and unreadable before steering the Marline toward the back.

The remaining employees stand frozen, watching, waiting.

“Which one of you has been here the longest?”

Fallon nods. “You’re promoted.”

The employee straightens, eyes wide with shock before lighting up in excitement. “Ms. Creed, I would be honored.”

Fallon smiles, softer this time. “Please, just call me Fallon.”

The goth woman snickers.

Marco murmurs in a low voice as the audio crackles beneath the final exchange. “Well, shit.” Then, the footage cuts to black.

We’ve always wanted an omega to complete our pack. It’s instinct. We all feel a natural pull but have learned to bury beneath the weight of who we are and what we do. The life we lead isn’t safe. It isn’t stable. It sure as hell isn’t the kind of life an omega is supposed to walk into.

So, for a long time, we accepted that it would never happen. Until Elizabeth Creed walked into our office that day. She was wearing her usual unshakable, razor-sharp self, dressed in one of her pristine tailored suits, folder in hand, already three steps ahead of whatever legal disaster we needed to be covered.

But something was different. The sharp scent of her usual wine and something floral faded, barely noticeable. What wasn’t fading, though, was the honeyed peach scent that nearly overwhelmed us. It was warm, sweet, addictive. Something deep inside us stirred, muscles tensing in unison, instincts snapping to attention like a gun being cocked. And, of course, Romano was the first to say something.

“Ms. Creed, what smells like peaches?”

Elizabeth—our unshakable, ice-cold defense lawyer—actually flinched.

The reaction was brief, but we all caught it. Her usual mask of professionalism cracked for just a second, her sharp eyes widening before she quickly schooled her expression. That was the first time I had ever seen her surprised. She looked down at herself, chuckling lightly, something almost nervous in the sound.

“Ah,” she exhaled, touching the sleeve of her blouse like she’d only just remembered what she was wearing. “I borrowed one of my daughter’s blouses this morning. I suppose I’ve gotten so used to her scent that I didn’t even notice.”

Her daughter. Something snapped into place. We exchanged silent glances, something unspoken and heavy passing between us. And that was it. That was the moment the obsession began. We asked—outright—who her daughter was.

Elizabeth had never been hesitant with us before, but this time? She hesitated. We saw how she carefully chose her words, how her expression guarded itself, and how she tried to brush the subject aside. But we weren’t letting it go. So I made her an offer she couldn’t ignore.

“I’ll clear all your debts if you arrange for us to marry your daughter.” The words hung in the air like a loaded weapon, and Elizabeth froze, her breath catching for just a moment. We didn’t try to sugarcoat it. We were blunt, direct, and honest. We told her, plain and simple, that we believed her daughter was our scent match—the omega meant for us.

She had every reason to say no.

But she didn’t.

And just like that—the plan began.

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