Page 6 of Knot Your Romeo
It also looks very safe.
She laughs. “I had the same reaction when I saw the photos online. Can you imagine working in a place like this?”
“Who are you working for again?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know. People who live in houses like this have money. And in my experience, money means power, and power means danger.
Mom’s smile tightens slightly. “Mr. Silver. He lives here with his family—two sons and a daughter, and I was lucky to get the job. They needed a full-time housekeeper to start immediately, as the old one is leaving soon.”
“Are they...” I swallow hard. “Are they Alphas?”
“Probably.” Mom’s hand finds mine across the center console, squeezing gently. “But we won’t be living in the main house, remember? There’s a cottage on the grounds that comes with the position. Our own space. Our own sanctuary.”
The word ‘sanctuary’ makes something loosen in my chest. That’s what we need—a place where Blake can’t find us, can’t touch us, can’t sell me to the highest bidder like he did my sisters, or worse, keep me for himself.
Well, he tried to sell my sisters, but Ella sold herself and Ava made a deal with her Alphas. Only Lottie was sold into a loveless marriage to a mafia man. Mom won’t talk about Lottie. She blames herself that her daughter was so distraught at her ownwedding and begged her to take her home. I know. I see the guilt in her eyes every time her daughters’ names come up.
When we reach the entrance, Mom drives through massive wrought-iron gates that opened automatically, our beat-up Ford feeling ridiculously out of place on the pristine gravel drive. We pass beautifully landscaped gardens, a fountain that probably costs more than most people’s houses, and what looks like a small lake glinting through the trees.
“This is insane,” I murmur. “What kind of people live like this?”
“The kind who can protect us,” Mom says quietly. “Mrs. Reynolds mentioned that Mr. Silver values privacy. The estate is completely secure—walls, cameras, the works. Blake could never get to us here.”
The hope in her voice breaks my heart. She’s been living with her mistakes for so long, carrying the weight of what she let happen to her daughters. But I can’t help wondering if we’re just trading one cage for one brighter.
A woman emerges from the main house as we park near a smaller building tucked behind a rose garden. She’s probably in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun and kind eyes that crinkle at the corners.
“That must be Mrs. Reynolds,” Mom says, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Remember, your name is—"
“Jolie Masters,” I finish the sentence for her. “I know, Mom. I won't blow our cover.”
She nods, but I can see the anxiety on the set of her shoulders. We’ve practiced this story a hundred times: Rita Masters, widowed housekeeper looking for a fresh start with her college-age daughter.
Mrs. Reynolds approaches our car with a warm smile, her practical shoes crunching on the gravel. She’s wearing a simpleblue dress and a white apron, and something about her demeanor immediately puts me at ease.
“You must be Rita,” she says as Mom steps out of the car. “I’m Janet Reynolds. Welcome to Silvercrest Manor.”
“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” Mom replies, shaking Mrs. Reynolds’ offered hand. “This is my daughter, Jolie.”
I climb out of the passenger seat, suddenly self-conscious in my wrinkled jeans and oversized hoodie. Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes are sharp as they assess me. “Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”
“Pleasure to meet you, dear,” she says. “Mrs. Reynolds will do fine, or Janet if you prefer. I understand you’ll be starting at the local college?”
“Yes, Mrs. Reynolds,” I manage. “Thank you for helping arrange the enrollment.”
“Nonsense. Education is important, especially for young Omega women.” There’s something in her tone that suggests she speaks from experience. “Now, let me show you to your home. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”
The cottage is tucked away from the front of the main house. It overlooks the rear of the house and has a wall of flowering climbing ivy that fills the air with sweetness. It’s small but perfect, like the kind you read about in fairytales. Stone walls, diamond-paned windows, the garden is filled with flowers, and a red door that looks like another world is on the other side.
“This is our new home,” Mom breathes, and I can hear the relief in her voice.
It’s a far cry from what we’ve come from, but it looks a lot more like home.
Mrs. Reynolds produces an old-fashioned key from her apron pocket. “I lived here for nearly ten years. I’m only leaving because my husband wants to retire to sunnier climates. Hardest decision I’ve ever made.”
“And you’re leaving in two weeks?” Mom asks.
“That’ll be more than enough time to get you acquainted with everything.” She turns the key in the lock and opens the door.
Inside, the cottage is even more charming. Exposed wooden beams cross the ceiling, and a stone fireplace dominates the living area. The furniture is simple but well-made, and everything smells of lemon polish and dried lavender. It’s actually quite overwhelming.
