Page 100 of Knot the Last Chapter

Rhys leans over her shoulder, blinking. “Well.”

Lila is still kneeling, her mouth slightly open. “Is that… real?”

“That,” I say, dropping to a crouch beside her, “is probably worth enough to replace every wall I rebuilt and still have enough left over for a private island.”

She lets out a breathless laugh. “This is insane.”

Rhys ruffles her hair gently. “You solved the mystery.”

“We solved it,” she says, looking around at us all. “I wouldn’t have figured out half of it without your help.”

Corwyn crouches too, pulling one bar loose and whistling low. “We should get it appraised. Might be a historical cache. Could be from Prohibition-era trade.”

Lila sits back on her heels and looks at each of us in turn. “I don’t care about the money. Not really. This is the kind of story I only ever dreamed of living. And I got to live it with you.”

I reach for her hand. “You are the story, Lila. Everything else is just gold-plated detail.”

She blushes, but her smile doesn’t falter.

Outside, the sea is calm. The world smells like wet pine and soft ash and something new beginning. And in here, in this tucked-away corner of an ancient house with peeling wallpaper and gold bars under the floor, I feel something settle.

Peace.

The storm inside me has passed.

Because she’s here.

Because we are.

And wherever the next chapter takes us, we’re writing it together.

Chapter fifty-nine

Lila

It’s almost two in the morning, but none of us feel like sleeping. The windows are still misted from rain, and the air hums with a kind of peaceful aftermath. Outside, I can hear the steady drip of water sliding from gutters and leaves, the occasional groan of old trees settling again. But inside, the kitchen is golden and alive.

Rhys has flour on his forearms again. He’s humming some low, familiar tune as he kneads dough for cinnamon rolls on the butcher-block counter. Every so often, he glances up at me with a look I can only describe as home.

Corwyn is standing by the stove, steeping tea in the old enamel kettle, swirling the mugs gently so the steam curls like breath into the night. His shirt’s a little rumpled, and the tips of his fingers are stained with old ink from whatever mystery he was annotating earlier.

Tyler sits beside me, warm and solid, one arm resting on the back of my chair. His thumb brushes the slope of my shoulder absentmindedly, and the contact sends little sparks over myskin. He’s quieter than usual, but his expression is soft, almost dreamy.

I smile into my cup.

It feels like we’re suspended in some perfect in-between moment—safe, full, glowing. Not just because of the treasure in the basement or the lightning that’s finally stopped flickering outside. But because we’re here. Together.

Tyler breaks the silence first. “I keep thinking,” he says, swirling his tea, “about what comes next.”

I arch a brow. “For the house?”

“For all of it.” He shifts slightly, pulling me in closer. “For you. For us.”

My breath catches. His voice is quiet, not demanding—just open.

Corwyn leans against the stove with a half-smile. “I’ve already got plans,” he says. “Once things are settled, I want to expand the shop. Maybe buy the adjoining space. Get more comfortable seating, space for author events, that kind of thing.”

“You mean readings?” I tease. “And cozy book signings?”