Page 89 of Knot Your Karma
The door opens before I can knock, and instead of some fancy butler, Sterling himself answers. He’s younger than I expected—maybe late forties—with distinguished salt-and-pepper hair that probably costs more to maintain than my monthly rent. His glasses scream expensive, and he keeps fidgeting with them, which is oddly endearing for someone whose house could probably buy half of Rhode Island.
“Ms. Rose.” He clears his throat, pushes up his glasses, does this nervous fidget thing that makes him seem more human. “I—well, this is rather—thank you so much for coming. And please, your pack—” He gestures with slightly shaking hands. “Do come in. I’ve prepared refreshments.”
Pack. He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, not like most people who dance around designation terminologylike it might bite them.
“Thank you,” I manage, stepping inside with my guys close behind me. Their scents wrap around me protectively, which I definitely need because this foyer has more crystal chandelier action than most people see in a lifetime. It should feel intimidating, but somehow it doesn’t. “This is Declan, Reed, and Adrian.”
“Gentlemen.” Sterling shakes hands with each of them, but his attention keeps coming back to me. He leads us deeper into the house, and I notice he’s doing this nervous finger-drumming thing against whatever surface is handy. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Karma, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some documentation about the piece in question.”
The sitting room looks like something from a magazine spread—leather furniture that probably costs more than my car, Persian rugs, bookshelves filled with what look like actualfirst editions instead of the kind of books normal people buy. There’s an elegant spread of cheese and wine on the coffee table, along with what appears to be a high school yearbook.
A yearbook.
My stomach drops.
“Wine?” Sterling asks, already moving toward bottles that catch the light like they contain liquid gold. “1992 vintage. Rather significant year for me, actually.”
“1992,” I repeat slowly, staring at that burgundy leather yearbook like it might explode. That’s my mom’s graduation year, and I’m getting a very weird feeling about this whole situation.
Not bad but not good either. Just like an information bomb is about to explode.
“Indeed.” Sterling pours wine into glasses that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary. “Please, sit. I thought we might start with some background before we discuss the compass. Though I suppose they’re connected, aren’t they?”
I end up on the leather sofa between Adrian and Reed, with Declan positioning himself where he can see both Sterling and the door, because apparently even in fancy Boston mansions, my pack maintains tactical awareness.
Sterling sits across from us, adjusting his glasses three more times before reaching for the yearbook with hands that are definitely shaking now.
“The compass,” he begins, then stops. More throat clearing. “Actually, perhaps we should start with this.”
He opens the yearbook to a marked page and turns it toward me. My wine glass tilts dangerously as my brain tries to process what I’m seeing.
It’s a photo of my mother.
Young, radiant, laughing at the camera with her arms around a boy who looks exactly like Sterling—just thirtyyears younger. The caption reads, “Lilli Rose and Sterling Ashworth.Most Likely to Stay Together Forever.”
“Oh my God.” The words barely escape because suddenly breathing requires conscious effort. I reach for Reed’s knee without thinking, needing something solid to anchor me. “That’s my mom. You dated my mom?”
“Four years.” Sterling’s voice cracks slightly, and his knuckles go white around his wine glass. “High school and into college. She was—is—the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known. I was planning to propose when she met your father.”
My pack goes so still behind me I can feel their tension. Adrian’s hand finds my shoulder, Reed shifts closer to my side, and Declan moves where he can see both Sterling and the door—a wall of quiet support.
“She never mentioned you,” I say, because apparently I state obvious thingswhen my brain stops working.“Like, ever. And Mom talks about everything—her job, her book club, her very strong opinions about reality TV. But high school boyfriends? Complete radio silence.”
“I wouldn’t expect her to,” Sterling says, and there’s so much regret in his voice it makes my chest tight. “It ended badly. My fault entirely. I was young and couldn’t handle rejection gracefully. Said some things I’ve regretted for thirty years.”
He gets up and moves to a glass case, handling whatever’s inside with the kind of attention most people reserve forhandling explosives.
“Your grandmother, Elizabeth Rose, gave me my first job,” he continues, lifting away the glass dome. “What Goes Around—though it was called Rose’s Treasures back then. I was seventeen, arrogant, and completely unprepared for how much she would teach me about seeing value in forgotten things.”
Under the glass is a pocket watch that makes my breathcatch. Brass and intricate, with a maritime compass rose engraved on the cover. It’s gorgeous, obviously valuable, and completely familiar in that way that makes recognition slam into me like a physical force.
“That’s from Grandma’s shop,” I whisper.
“Your mother gave it to me for graduation.” Sterling’s smile carries thirty years of regret and hope all mixed together. “She said it would help me find my way home, no matter where life took me. I’ve carried it every day since, though I’m not sure I ever figured out where home was supposed to be.”
He places it in my palm without hesitation, and the weight of it settles something restless in my chest. The brass is warm and smooth from years of handling, and holding it feels like finding a missing piece I didn’t know I was looking for.
“Okay, I’m definitely missing something here,” I say, looking up at Sterling’s hopeful, nervous expression. “Because this feels like way more than just returning stolen property and discussing maritime expertise.”
