Page 26 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Chapter Sixteen

Chloe

M y phone sits heavy in my palm, the contact information for Sinclair & Associates glowing on the screen.

Dominic’s hand settles on my hip, and he kisses my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this right now. We can wait until we’re back on the island.”

“No, I don’t want to keep putting it off.” I reach for the soft, crocheted blanket at the foot of the bed and snuggle up with Dominic for comfort.

But still, I don’t dial the number. If I call, I open a door I can’t close. Everything I’ve fought so hard for in my life will suddenly be put in front of and judged by the people who once saw me as disposable.

Just call. Just do it.

My thumb taps out the number before my courage fails. Each ring sends my pulse racing faster, and by the third one, sweat dampens my palm, the plastic protective case on my phone slipping in my grasp.

A crisp female voice breaks the silence. “Sinclair and Associates, how may I direct your call?”

“I—” My throat constricts, and I clear it before trying again. “This is Chloe Richardson. I received a letter regarding matters of inheritance?”

A pause, followed by the click of computer keys. “Ms. Richardson. Yes, we’ve been expecting your call.”

She says my name like she’s acknowledging a problematic case file that landed on her desk during rotation. Expected. Like a pawn in a game I didn’t know I was still playing. A chill rolls down my spine, and Dominic pulls me closer, offering his silent strength.

“I need to schedule a meeting,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.

More typing filters through the speaker. “Mr. Sinclair has an opening today at two o’clock. Would that suit you?”

Today? My fingers tighten around the phone. The speed of the offer catches me off guard, as if they’ve been holding time open, anticipating this very moment .

“Today?” I repeat, checking with Dominic, who nods.

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair requested we accommodate you at your earliest convenience should you call.” The receptionist’s tone carries a hint of curiosity beneath the professional veneer.

Of course, he did. “Two o’clock is fine.”

“Excellent. The meeting will be at our downtown offices. Fifteenth floor. Should I text you the address?”

“Yes, please.” The conversation continues with logistical details that I absorb through a fog of disbelief.

By the time I hang up, sunlight spills through the window, and the sound of Emily moving around the house drifts down the hall.

I drop the phone onto my lap, and nervous energy runs through my body. My fingers find the shamrock necklace at my throat, tracing the birthstones.

Dominic catches my hand, stilling my fidgeting. “Are you okay?”

No. Nothing is okay. In a few hours, I’ll be sitting across from the family who turned their backs on me, who sat at a distance while I struggled to survive.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I turn my hand in his and thread our fingers together. The warmth of his palm on mine disperses some of the coldness that’s seeped into my bones.

“I will be.” I brush my lips over his knuckles. “Thank you for going with me.”

“Of course.” He kisses my temple. “Why don’t you shower while I go check on what Emily’s up to and offer to help with breakfast.”

“Maybe just watch from the sidelines,” I tease. “I want it to be edible.”

“Oh?” He tickles my sides. “What are you saying about my kitchen skills?”

“Nothing!” Giggling, I roll away from him and tumble off the end of the bed before heading for the bathroom.

I pause in the doorway of Emily’s kitchen, taking in the domestic scene.

Emily stands at the stove, her broad back to us, spatula scraping a cast iron pan as she flips an omelet with a practiced precision I’ve only seen before in Holden.

She wears faded flannel pajama pants and a thermal shirt with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms corded with muscle, her attire softer than her work clothes, but still practical.

Dominic sits at a small table set in an alcove, a mug clasped between his palms, steam curling up to caress the underside of his stubbled jaw.

“There she is,” he says as I enter.

I slip into the chair beside him, my damp hair dripping cool spots onto my T-shirt. “That better be decaf you’re drinking.”

He hums noncommittally and takes another sip from his mug.

I turn toward Emily. “Thanks for the clean clothes.”

When I came out of the shower, I had found the outfit from yesterday sitting on the edge of the bed, folded and still warm from the dryer.

“Couldn’t send you back out in dirty clothes.” The skillet hisses as she slides the omelet onto a waiting plate, the edges golden-brown and crispy.

She places it in front of me, the heat of it rising in a savory cloud of butter, chives, and melted cheese.

“Eat before it gets cold.” She turns back to crack more eggs into the pan.

The first bite melts on my tongue, fluffy egg, sharp cheddar, and a hint of dill. A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it .

Dominic chuckles, sliding a cinnamon roll onto my plate. Icing drips down its spiraled sides, pooling in sticky puddles on the ceramic. “Never let Holden hear you making those indecent noises over someone else’s cooking.”

Heat rushes to my face, and I kick him under the table, but his leg shifts away, dodging my foot. My cheeks flush warmer. “I still prefer Holden’s cooking.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His fingers brush a strand of wet hair from my cheek, the contact brief but electrifying. “Keep digging that hole.”

Emily brings her own plate to the table and drops into a chair with surprising grace. “Taxi’s running again. Kyle texted first thing this morning. I’ll be heading back to the job site after I run some errands in town.”

“Did he say what the problem was?” Dominic asks.

Emily shakes her head. “No, you’ll have to ask him about it. Timing’s not ideal, though, what with everything else going on.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and I frown, not sure what they’re talking about.

Emily gestures to my half-empty plate. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“It’s really good.” I lick frosting from my lips “ The omelet, the cinnamon rolls, everything.” My fork gestures toward the kitchen at large. “And your home. I’ve never stayed anywhere so comfortable.”

Emily’s expression shifts, the tension in her features softening, and her shoulders relax. She sets down her coffee mug, her hands curling around the ceramic to draw warmth from it. “It’s been nice having some life in the house again.”

The simple statement hangs in the air. I think of the black cat in the photograph, the empty rooms designed for a nonexistent family, and the handcrafted furniture built with love and care, but with no one here to appreciate it.

We finish eating in silence, then Emily stands and gathers our empty plates. “What are your plans for today?”

“We need to do some clothes shopping,” Dominic says.

Confusion creases my brow. “We do?”

“We do.” He says firmly. “What we have isn’t up to snuff for where we’re going later.”

“Oh.” I peer down at my oversized T-shirt and loose jeans. Comfortable, sure, but they’ll stand out in the polished halls of Sinclair & Associates. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. ”

The reminder brings down the happiness brought on by our cozy breakfast. The scent of cinnamon and eggs, the way Dominic teases me while Emily quietly made enough food for everyone without being asked…

It’s everything my childhood wasn’t. No harsh voices, no sugar-coated manipulation, no passive-aggressive silence. Just quiet care.

I don’t want to lose this.

Emily turns from the sink, drying her hands on a dish towel with embroidered chickens. “You two can head out whenever you need to. Don’t worry about cleaning up or anything.”

Dominic stands and helps me from my seat. “Thank you, Emily. For everything.”

“Least I could do.” She waves away his gratitude with a flick of the towel as she turns to me. “You take care of yourself, hear? You have your hands full with this one and his pack.”

Warmth spreads through me. “I will.”

Dominic’s fingers tighten around mine. “We’ll take care of each other.”

The doors of the high-end clothing store glide open, revealing polished wood and minimalist clothing displays. Soft lighting and hushed voices fill the open space.

A sharply dressed stylist greets us with a tablet in one hand. “Ms. Richardson. Mr. Sterling. We’ve prepared a selection based on the specifications you submitted.”

I blink. Dominic submitted specs?

She gestures toward a private suite, all velvet panels and gold trim, as pristine as a jewelry box. “Your fitting salon is just through here. Shall I send in champagne?”

“No, thank you,” Dominic says, polite but clipped.

We understand how this works and don’t have time to waste.

Inside the suite, silence stretches between us.

Mirrors cover the walls, angled to flatter from all sides.

A chaise lounge and a marble-topped console hold bottled water and a lacquered tray of pastel macarons.

A garment rack waits, curated with elegant pieces of clothing in navy, charcoal, ivory, and emerald. No prints. No softness.

My stomach tightens into a sour knot around Emily’s comforting breakfast. Everything about this place is designed to prove your value with good tailoring.

I inspect the hanger, which holds a cashmere- lined, sharp-shouldered navy blazer and skirt set, and my fingers curl, tempted to reject it on principle.

Dominic watches me through the mirror. “You have to wear the armor they respect, or they’ll dismiss everything you say.”

“I hate that that’s true.” Still, I take the hanger.

His lips twitch. “It’s only for a few hours.”

A sales associate reappears with an outfit on a hanger. “This suit should coordinate with anything Ms. Richardson chooses, sir.”

Wordlessly, Dominic takes the charcoal jacket and crisp white shirt.

Pale gold lines the changing alcove, with a pedestal in the center meant for tailoring. I strip slowly, folding my comfortable clothes and setting them aside.

The skirt hugs my waist, and the blouse drapes perfectly. When I slide the blazer on, my shoulders square without thought. The mirror doesn’t lie. The woman reflected back reads power.

But I feel empty.

I emerge, and Dominic, half-buttoned into his own new suit, goes still.

“That’ll do,” he murmurs.

I swallow hard. “It’s armor. ”

He finishes adjusting his cuffs, then steps beside me in the mirror. Together, we appear expensive.

“It’s good,” he says. “You should wear it out.”

I look at our reflections again. “You, too.”

The associate returns a moment later and, without needing to be told, asks, “Shall I have your previous garments packed for delivery or travel?”

“Pack them,” I answer before Dominic can respond. “We’ll wear these.”

“Of course.”

The payment is handled quietly. No plastic bags, just a sleek black garment box and a white envelope containing our receipt, discreetly slid into Dominic’s pocket.

I walk out of the store in my new outfit, each step louder than the last in a pair of heels that pinch my toes but add four inches to my height. The image may portray power, but I don’t feel it. This isn’t who I am or who I want to be. But it’s who I need to be, just for today.

Back in the car, Dominic drives us to our next destination, where we have our hair styled and my face is transformed by makeup.

When I stare at myself in the mirror, the person in the reflection doesn’t flinch. But it takes effort. I keep my breathing steady, square my shoulders, and narrow my sharply lined pink eyes, the weight of my coiffed hair dragging at my skull.

I look like my mother, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. If I’m going to face the man who raised and then discarded me, I’ll need to channel every ruthless tactic Vivian Sinclair ever taught me.

Dominic rejoins me, freshly shaved and with his glossy black hair woven into a complicated braid down the center of his head. My breath catches at his beauty, and it takes all my willpower not to smudge my lipstick by kissing him.

He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. “Ready?”

I smooth a hand over the front of my blazer. I may be a Sinclair by blood, but their rejection taught me to be stronger. And I’m walking into that office not to ask for anything, but to show them how far I’ve come despite them.

I take a deep breath. “Let’s finish this so we can return to our pack.”

As we step outside, the city noise dulls beneath the blood rushing in my ears. Every instinct screams run , but I don’t.

Not this time.