Page 101 of Knot Your Karma
“Mr. Sterling Ashworth,” he says, extending his hand toward Sage with old-fashioned courtesy that somehow manages to feel like a threat. “I believe you’ve been discussing my new head assessor.”
Sage’s theatrical confidence crumbles like wet tissue, herhands fluttering toward her jewelry in nervous gestures while her voice climbs half an octave higher than her practiced dramatic tone. “Mr. Ashworth! What a... what a delightful surprise. I had no idea you were here.”
“Evidently.” Sterling’s smile is perfectly polite and absolutely arctic, the kind of expression that comes from thirty years of moving through high-stakes negotiations. “I was just examining some of Karma’s inventory. Quite impressive collection—she has an exceptional eye for authenticity and provenance. Essential qualities in my line of work.”
“Indeed,” Sage says, clearly trying to recalibrate her approach. “Karma and I have had several professional interactions over the years. I’ve always admired her... resourcefulness.”
“Resourcefulness,” Sterling repeats thoughtfully. “How fascinating. Though I have to say, I’m curious about these professional services you mentioned. Could you elaborate on the specifics?”
The question hangs in the air like a sword. Sage’s eyes dart between Sterling and me, clearly realizing she’s walked into something far more complex than she anticipated, her theatrical poise deserting her completely.
“Oh, just the usual dealer-to-dealer consultations,” she says with forced lightness that fools no one. “Authentication questions, provenance research, that sort of thing.”
“I see.” Sterling’s tone suggests he sees much more than Sage intended to reveal. “And these finder’s fees you mentioned—are those standard practice in your... consultations?”
“Well, when one dealer helps facilitate particularly lucrative opportunities...”
“Particularly lucrative opportunities,” Sterling muses. “You know, I find it fascinating how items move through the antique trade. How a family heirloom might find its wayfrom one collection to another through a series of... consultations.”
Sage has gone very pale beneath her dramatic makeup, foundation unable to hide the way color drains from her face. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating facts.” Sterling moves closer to the counter. “I know exactly how the Mitchell family compass came into my possession. I know exactly who sold it, when, and why. I also know exactly who purchased it as an intermediary.”
The silence is deafening. Fate looks as if she’s watching a tennis match played with hand grenades, hands still frozen on the clock.
“Mr. Ashworth,” Sage starts, but Sterling raises a hand with the kind of quiet authority that stops conversations mid-syllable.
“I also know,” he continues with devastating calm, “that the young woman who sold that compass has spent months feeling guilty about a moment of justified anger. That she’s proven herself to be one of the most ethical, knowledgeable, and talented maritime specialists I’ve encountered in thirty years of collecting. That she’s exactly the kind of person I want representing my collection and my reputation.”
He pauses, letting that sink in before continuing, fingers adjusting his glasses with practiced precision.
“What I find absolutely fascinating is encountering someone who thinks that the same young woman owes her money for... what did you call it? Professional discretion?” Sterling’s smile could freeze harbor water. “As if ethical behavior were a commodity to be purchased rather than a baseline expectation.”
Sage opens and closes her mouth several times without producing sound, jewelry creating discordant notes as her hands shake.
“Now,” Sterling says pleasantly, “I believe you mentionedongoing professional relationships. I think it’s important you understand that Karma Rose has my complete confidence and support. Any attempt to threaten, intimidate, or extort her will be met with the full weight of my professional influence. And Ms. Morrison, I do hope you understand what that means in our very small industry.”
The threat is delivered with such polite warmth it takes a moment to sink in. When it does, Sage goes white, foundation unable to mask the complete drainage of color from her features.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding?—”
“I don’t think there has.” Sterling’s voice remains perfectly pleasant while carrying absolute finality. “I think you came here expecting to exploit someone you perceived as vulnerable. I think you discovered instead that she has rather formidable protection. I think you’re now reconsidering your approach.”
Behind me, Declan makes a sound that might be a growl, low and dangerous. The protective rage rolling off him is so intense I can feel it like heat against my back.
“Perhaps,” Sterling continues, “it would be wise for you to leave now. Before this conversation becomes even more uncomfortable.”
Sage looks around the shop as if she’s trying to find an escape route that doesn’t involve walking past a furious alpha and a millionaire who just threatened her professional reputation. Her theatrical confidence has completely evaporated, leaving someone who looks smaller and significantly less dangerous, jewelry jangling with nervous tremors.
“Of course,” she says finally, voice lacking all its previous dramatic flair. “I believe I’ve... made my point.”
“Indeed you have,” Sterling agrees with deadly politeness. “Though perhaps not the point you intended.”
Sage gathers her flowing fabrics and dramatic jewelry, moving toward the door with as much dignity as she canmanage while silk scarves tangle around her legs. At the threshold, she turns back, desperation making her voice sharp.
“Karma, this isn’t over?—”
“Yes,” Sterling says quietly, each word carrying absolute finality, “it is.”
