Page 3 of Knot on the Market

But the leather chair cradles me like it's been waiting for someone to need exactly this kind of comfort. Someone lived here once, someone who sat in this chair and read books by the fireplace and probably raised a family in these small, imperfect rooms. Someone who cared enough to build built-in shelves and maintain that stone fireplace and plant the fruit trees I can see through the windows.

They figured it out. Learned what they needed to know, made mistakes, fixed them, made it work.

Maybe I can too.

The silence in the house is overwhelming at first. I'm used to the constant hum of Los Angeles, the traffic and sirens and neighbors that reminded me I wasn't alone even when I felt like it. Here, there's nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the occasional creak of old wood settling.

But as I sit in the quiet, something unexpected happens. Instead of feeling alone, I feel... peaceful. Like I can finally think without someone else's opinions crowding into my head. Like I can want things without having to justify them. Like I can make mistakes without them becoming someone else's disappointment.

I pull out my phone and stare at Dustin's name in my contacts. Part of me wants to call him back, to hear his voice and fall back into the familiar pattern of letting someone else make the hard choices.

But then I remember the way he looked at Skye in those photos. Not the way you look at a convenient omega or a good career move, but the way you look at someone you're actually in love with. The way he used to look at me, before I became part of the routine instead of part of the excitement.

Maybe the breakup wasn't just about them finding someone better. Maybe it was about all of us settling for something that looked right from the outside instead of something that felt right from the inside.

I delete his number.

Then I delete Jace's and Theo's too, one by one, until my contacts list looks as empty as this house feels.

But empty isn't the same as lonely, I'm learning. Empty means there's room for something new. Something chosen instead of assigned. Something that grows from what I actually want instead of what I think I should want.

I sit with my phone in my hands, realizing I don't need to call anyone. Don't need permission or approval or someone else's opinion about whether buying this house was smart or reckless.

I did something for myself, based on my own judgment, and I get to find out how it turns out. That's terrifying and exhilarating in exactly equal measure.

The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. In a few hours, it will be dark, and I'll be alone in a strange house in a strange town where I don't know a single soul.

The thought makes me sit up straighter instead of shrinking back. Tomorrow I'll start figuring out what this place needs, what I need, how to build a life that's actually mine instead of a life that looks good in magazine spreads.

At least I have somewhere to sleep tonight. The bed and mattress I ordered online arrived this morning, and the real estate agent was kind enough to have it set up in the master bedroom along with some of the furniture the previous owners left behind including a working refrigerator. Small mercies.

Tonight, I'm going to sleep in a house that doesn't smell likethem, on a bed that I chose, in a room where no one else getsto have an opinion about the temperature or the lighting or whether I want to read until 2 AM.

I'm about to get up and start exploring when I hear something that makes me freeze. Footsteps on the front porch, followed by a knock at the door.

My first thought isn't fear—it's curiosity. Who in this town even knows I'm here? Is this what small-town life is like, neighbors just... showing up?

I creep to the window and peer out, but the porch roof blocks my view. The knocking comes again, polite but persistent. A reporter? How did they find me this fast. My stomach drops.

"Hello?" a woman's voice calls. "I know you're in there, dear. I saw you arrive."

The voice is warm, grandmotherly, completely non-threatening. But more than that, it sounds... welcoming. Like whoever's on my porch is genuinely glad I'm here.

When was the last time someone was just glad I existed without wanting anything in return?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking toward the door, ready to find out what small-town neighborliness actually looks like.

Chapter 2

Lila

Definitely not a reporter. But still, I'm not exactly in the right place for visitors. I'm wearing yesterday's clothes, I haven't showered since this morning, and my hair looks like I've been driving for six hours. Which I have.

More than that, I came here to figure things out on my own. Taking help from strangers on day one feels like cheating.

"I brought cookies," the voice adds, and I can hear the smile in it.

Cookies. When was the last time someone brought me cookies?

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