Page 1

Lila

I find out my pack dumped me from an Entertainment reporter with perfectly contoured eyebrows and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

Which is why I'm currently driving through the middle of nowhere in a rental car that smells like vanilla air freshener and someone else's regrets, my designer sunglasses doing absolutely nothing to stop the headache building behind my eyes.

The GPS keeps insisting I'm "arriving at my destination," but all I see are pine trees and a two-lane highway that curves like it's got nowhere important to be.

Which makes two of us.

My phone buzzes against the passenger seat.

Probably another call from my publicist, or my agent, or one of the three reporters who somehow got my number and keep asking for "my side of the story.

" As if there's a good side to finding out your pack dumped you from an Entertainment reporter at a charity gala.

"How long have you and your pack been broken up?

" she'd asked, shoving a phone in my face with photos of Dustin, Jace, and Theo kissing their new omega on the red carpet at the London premiere.

A twenty-two-year-old actress named Skye starring in their latest film, while I was in LA talking about our upcoming mating ceremony to reporters.

The worst part? I wasn't even surprised. Just... tired. Bone-deep, soul-tired of always being the last to know what was happening in my own life.

I let the phone buzz itself to death and focus on the road signs. Honeyridge Falls 2 Miles. Almost there. Almost to the place where maybe, hopefully, people don't know my name or my business before I do.

Not that I miss what I'm leaving behind. The mansion with the infinity pool where I spent most nights alone anyway. The walk-in closet full of red-carpet gowns I wore to smile for cameras while my pack was apparently falling in love with someone else.

Or maybe it just smells like decisions made without me.

The highway curves again, and suddenly I'm driving through an actual postcard. Honeyridge Falls spreads out below me like something from a movie I would have starred in three years ago. The kind where the city girl learns to love small-town life and marries the local veterinarian.

The difference is, I'm not here to fall in love. I'm here to figure out who Lila James is when she's not being someone's omega, someone's co-star, someone's accessory to a perfectly curated pack image.

Mountains rise on all sides, covered in dense green trees that shimmer in the heat. A few scattered houses dot the hillsides, their gardens bursting with bright flowers and vegetable patches heavy with tomatoes and corn. Real people. Living real lives that they get to choose for themselves.

I can work with that.

The main street is exactly what I expected.

Boutique shops with hand-painted signs, a diner with checkered curtains, and a bookstore that probably sells more coffee than novels.

Everything looks like it was designed by people who actually live here instead of hired consultants trying to manufacture charm.

I pass locals walking dogs and chatting on sidewalks, an older man loading lumber into his truck, a woman sweeping bakery steps with the unhurried rhythm of someone who has nowhere else to be.

None of them look twice at my rental car. None of them point or whisper or pull out their phones.

For the first time in a month, I can breathe without wondering who's watching.

My phone starts buzzing again. Dustin's ringtone, because apparently, I'm a masochist who hasn't deleted his number yet.

I let it go to voicemail for the fifteenth time today.

I already know what he'll say. The same thing he's been saying since I moved out.

"Lila, where did you put the spare keys to the wine cellar?

" Or "How do you get the mood lights to work in the nest? Skye wants to change the color."

Always logistics with Dustin. Never "how are you?" or "are you okay?" Just another reminder that I was the household manager who happened to also be sleeping with them.

The house they left to go be with Skye on a London red carpet while I was at that charity gala, smiling for cameras and telling everyone how excited I was to start planning our mating ceremony.

The mating ceremony that got canceled via text message from my publicist, because apparently my own pack couldn't be bothered to break up with me themselves.

"The boys think it's best if you hear this from me," Rebecca had written. "They're going in a different direction. Romantically speaking. I'm so sorry, honey."

Then came Dustin's follow-up text, cold and practical: "Pack lawyers will handle the asset division. Please be moved out within two weeks and keep this quiet until we can manage the media narrative."

The GPS finally announces that I've "arrived at my destination," and I turn down a narrow side street lined with maple trees.

The houses here are smaller, older, with wide front porches and gardens that have obviously been loved for decades.

It's the kind of neighborhood where people know each other's names and probably bring casseroles when someone's sick.

I wouldn't know. I've never lived anywhere like this. Never lived anywhere where I had to figure things out for myself.

A woman with silver hair is watering her petunias and waves as I drive past. Actually waves. Not the calculated networking smile I'm used to, but a real, genuine "welcome to the neighborhood" gesture. I'm so surprised I nearly forget to wave back.

When was the last time a stranger was nice to me without wanting something in return?

The house numbers count down—47, 45, 43—and my heart starts beating faster.

I've seen exactly three photos of this place, all taken on a sunny day that made everything look charming and rustic.

What if it's worse than I thought? What if I've bitten off more than I can chew?

What if everyone's right and I really can't handle anything without a pack to manage the details?

Then I see it.

My house.

The house I bought sight unseen, with cash, at two in the morning while stress-eating ice cream and scrolling through real estate listings in places where people mind their own business.

It looks like my life feels. Broken and abandoned, but still standing.

The fence sags like it's given up trying to keep anything in or out, half the pickets missing like broken teeth. The porch droops under the weight of too many winters, and the mailbox lies defeated on the neatly mowed lawn—someone has clearly been maintaining the grass despite the house's neglect.

The house itself is small and white with what might once have been green shutters, though it's hard to tell under all the peeling paint.

There's a chimney that looks structurally sound and windows that are miraculously still intact, which I'm desperately choosing to see as signs that some things can survive being abandoned.

A tabby cat is sitting on the front steps like it owns the place. It looks up at me with yellow eyes that seem to say, "About time you showed up."

I park in what might charitably be called a driveway and sit for a moment, engine ticking as it cools. This is it. This is my chance to prove I can handle my own life. My chance to figure out who Lila James is when she's not being photographed, interviewed, or told what her own feelings should be.

The air here smells different. Clean and sharp, with pine and woodsmoke and something indefinably wild that makes my omega instincts stir in ways they haven't in months.

No lingering traces of expensive cologne and competitive ambition, no spaces saturated with the scents of people who make decisions about my life without consulting me.

Just... space. Clean, honest space that doesn't expect anything except what I choose to give it.

The cat meows at me through the windshield, then apparently decides I'm sufficiently welcomed and trots off toward the house next door, where an elderly woman is emerging onto her porch.

"There you are, Muffin!" she calls, scooping up the cat. "Were you bothering our new neighbor?" She waves at me with her free hand. "Sorry about that, dear! He thinks he's the unofficial greeter for the whole street!"

I roll down my window and wave back. "No bother at all! He's very welcoming."

"He's a character, that one," she says with a warm smile. "I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other. I'm Mrs. Jones.”

I manage a genuine smile for the first time in weeks. "I’m Lila."

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Lila."

As I look at my house, one thought keeps running through my mind: It's not big.

But it's mine. Every broken picket, every peeling shutter, every crack in the walkway.

Mine in a way that infinity pool mansion never was, despite my name being on the deed.

That place always felt like a stage set, beautiful and perfect and ultimately belonging to whoever was directing the scene.

This place feels real. Imperfect and challenging and possibly structurally unsound, but real. And more importantly, no one else gets to make decisions about it without asking me first.

I grab my suitcase from the back seat, the only things I took from my old life when I ran off and hid for the past month. I walk up the cracked concrete path to my front door.

"Well, house," I say to the peeling paint and sagging porch, "I should warn you, I don't know anything about taking care of... well, anything, really. But I'm willing to learn if you're willing to be patient."

The key is heavier than I expected, old-fashioned brass that looks like it belongs in a period drama.

The realtor said the house was built in 1952, back when people expected things to last forever.

When pack bonds meant something and omegas didn't get traded in for newer models who fit better with the current project.