Page 39 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chloe

T hree days ago, Holden made me come so hard I saw stars. Today, I made a dragon cry.

Well. Technically, Elena, the fairy queen heroine of my romantasy series, did when she confessed to her fire-breathing consort that she wanted to keep their surprise baby, even if it meant war, and he dropped to his knees, promising she’d never be alone again.

The words come fast. Faster than they have in weeks.

With afternoon sunlight spilling through the family room windows, and the laptop balanced on my thighs radiating heat through the soft fleece blanket draped across my legs, my fingers fly across the keys .

Quinn naps curled at the opposite end of the L-shaped sofa, her small body wrapped in the same blankets we used for our nest on movie night. Her breathing falls into a soft rhythm that blends with the distant sounds of construction drifting through the open windows.

Sprinkles lies stretched across the hardwood floor beneath her like a massive black rug, his thick fur gleaming where sunbeams touch it.

His presence no longer sends anxiety skittering through me.

Instead, he’s become part of the sanctuary we’ve built in this room, a gentle guardian settled into our afternoon quiet.

This is what I’d forgotten during all the chaos with my mother, Louie, Simon, and the Sinclairs. This pure joy of creation, of building worlds where happy endings become reality.

My phone buzzes once on the coffee table, the sharp vibration cutting through my peace. I ignore it, fingers already moving back to the keyboard where Elena waits to deliver a cutting remark to her counselors.

The phone buzzes again. Then again.

Quinn shifts in her sleep, a small frown creasing her forehead as the sound disturbs her rest. I reach for the device, prepared to silence whatever spam calls or random notifications are trying to steal my creative momentum.

But the screen shows three missed calls from my editor, and a flagged email with a subject line that drops my stomach

Let’s Talk Timeline and Public Image.

My fingers hover over the email. The laptop’s keys blur as my focus shifts from fictional characters to the very real world intruding on the life I’m building here.

I tap the email open.

Chloe, hope you’re well. Need to discuss some concerns that have come up regarding your current situation. The marketing team has some questions about publicity plans, and legal forwarded this memo about estate issues. Call me when you get this.

Best, Jennifer

Attached is a memo from the publisher’s legal department, its corporate letterhead fuzzy on my phone’s small screen. The language is worded to distance the sender from any actual human emotion.

RE: Author liability assessment - ongoing litigation or estate disputes involving contractual obligations.

The words swim together as my heart pounds through my entire body. They want to know about “ongoing litigation.” About estate disputes. About whether my connection to the Sinclair family causes “complications tied to high-profile family estates” that might impact my marketability.

My laptop slides off my thighs as my hands begin to shake, the cursor blinking left in the middle of Elena’s unfinished sentence.

Did Gregory leak to my publisher that I might become problematic? Is this some kind of warning? If I don’t play by their rules, they’ll ruin me?

The memo continues with bullet points that cut me down even more.

Public perception management during family legal proceedings

Publisher liability regarding controversial pack affiliations

Marketing timeline adjustments pending resolution of estate matters

Each phrase is a careful euphemism, a way to express their worry that my messy, complicated life might stain their carefully cultivated brand. They think readers might not want romance novels from an author whose real life involves scandal.

As I stare at the screen, the words blur together into meaningless shapes. The story that came alive just minutes ago, with Elena’s confidence, Marcus’s vulnerability, and their perfect chemistry, now seems distant.

How can I write about happily ever after when my own life keeps threatening to implode at every turn?

Sprinkles lifts his massive head from the floor, and his tail gives a single thump.

Quinn stirs at the sound, one pale brown eye opening to peer at me through a tangle of hair. “Aunt Chloe? Are you okay?”

Her concern cuts through me. She’s so young, and has already dealt with so much in life. I don't want to add to her worry.

My fingers tremble as I close the laptop, Elena and Marcus’s story vanishing into digital limbo. “I’m fine, princess. Just some work stuff.”

But as I set the laptop aside and wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders, the sinking sensation in my stomach says nothing about this is fine.

The sanctuary we’ve built in this room, the family we’ve become, and the story I’m trying to write all feel fragile now, threatened by forces who see my happiness as inconvenient.

The phone rings before I can gather the courage to call Jennifer back. My finger moves to answer but freezes as the caller ID confirms my dread. Jennifer Walsh - Editor.

Quinn’s head lifts from her nest of blankets, sleepy confusion clouding her features. “Aren’t you going to pick up?”

I swipe to answer before the third ring, and I lift the phone to my ear. “Hi, Jennifer.”

“Chloe, thanks for picking up.” Jennifer speaks with the careful cadence editors use to wrap bad news in professionalism. “I realize the timing isn’t ideal, but we need to talk about some complications with your upcoming releases.”

The afternoon warmth drains from the room, and I pull the blanket higher, seeking comfort from the fleece that still holds the scent of pack. “What kind of complications?”

The click of a keyboard comes through the speaker. “Well, the marketing team received some concerning information about your family situation. Apparently, there are some high-profile legal matters involving the Sinclair pack that could impact our publicity strategy.”

So it was Gregory. Or, more likely, his lawyer.

My stomach knots as she continues, each word delivered with the practiced neutrality of someone reading from a script.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, Chloe. Your work is fantastic, and everyone here believes in your talent.

But with the current uncertainty surrounding estate disputes and pack politics, the marketing department believes it would be prudent to adjust our timeline. ”

Adjust our timeline. Corporate speak for put your career on hold while we figure out how toxic you’ve become.

“What exactly does this mean for me?” I manage to ask past the tight band around my chest.

“Nothing dramatic,” Jennifer assures me, her tone bright with false optimism. “We’re suggesting you take a step back from public appearances until things stabilize. No book signings, no podcast interviews, no social media promotion. Only until the legal matters resolve themselves.”

Quinn sits up now, wrapping her small arms around her knees and waiting with the patient silence of someone who’s learned grown-up phone calls often bring bad news.

“The publisher’s legal team wants to avoid any potential liability issues.

When we first took you on, you weren’t an established author,” Jennifer continues with a hint of censure.

“Legal didn’t dig deep into your background, and you never disclosed your connection to the Sinclair pack.

But now we’re planning to invest so much…

You understand how these things work. High-profile family disputes can get messy, and we can’t have that reflecting on our brand. ”

Our brand . As if my life exists solely as a marketing tool, valuable only when clean and uncomplicated.

“They’re also requesting a detailed statement about any ongoing litigation you might be involved in. Standard paperwork, nothing to worry about. We need to know if there are any estate claims, inheritance disputes, that sort of thing. ”

My throat closes. They want a full accounting of my messy Sinclair heritage and documentation of every legal landmine that might explode and damage their curated image.

“How long?” I whisper.

“What’s that?”

“How long do I need to stay invisible?”

Jennifer’s pause stretches long enough for Quinn’s soft breathing and Sprinkles’ gentle snoring from the floor to fill the silence.

When she speaks again, any sympathy she feels is diluted by the detachment of corporate protocol. “Hard to say, really. These pack disputes can drag on for months, sometimes years. The important thing is we’re being proactive about protecting everyone’s interests.”

Everyone’s interests. Everyone except mine.

“I understand,” I say, the automatic response ringing hollow. “I’ll send you whatever documentation you need.”

“Wonderful. And Chloe? This isn’t personal. We all think you’re incredibly talented. This is just business.”

Just business. The phrase that absolves everyone of responsibility for the human cost of their decisions.

My throat tightens. “Thank you for calling. ”

I hang up before she can offer any more empty reassurances, my hand shaking as I lower the phone to the coffee table. The device lands with a soft click that echoes in the sudden silence.

My breaths come in short, sharp bursts that do nothing to fill my lungs.

Quinn watches me with worried innocence, her small face scrunched with concern. “Aunt Chloe? Are you sick?”

Before I can answer, footsteps shuffle down the hallway, accompanied by the whisper of fabric against fabric.

Grady appears in the doorway, his blond hair disheveled and his oversized hoodie hanging loose around his tall frame.

The sleeves cover his hands, lending him a younger appearance than his twenty-six years.

He takes one look at my face and climbs over the back of the couch without hesitation, landing beside me with a soft thump that bounces the cushions. “What happened?”