Page 55 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

“That’s an interesting proposition,” a new voice says from the curtained doorway.

Sterling emerges from the back room with the kind of calm, measured movement that suggests he’s heard every word of this conversation.

He adjusts his cufflinks twice before speaking, his voice remaining perfectly level while his fingers drum once against his thigh—the only sign of emotion leaking through practiced control.

His expression is politely interested, but there’s something underneath—a coldness that makes Sage’s theatrical menace look like amateur dramatics.

“Mr. Sterling Ashworth,” he says, extending his hand toward Sage with old-fashioned courtesy that somehow manages to feel like a threat. “I believe you’ve been discussing my new head assessor.”

Sage’s theatrical confidence crumbles like wet tissue, her hands fluttering toward her jewelry in nervous gestures while her voice climbs half an octave higher than her practiced dramatic tone. “Mr. Ashworth! What a... what a delightful surprise. I had no idea you were here.”

“Evidently.” Sterling’s smile is perfectly polite and absolutely arctic, the kind of expression that comes from thirty years of moving through high-stakes negotiations.

“I was just examining some of Karma’s inventory.

Quite impressive collection—she has an exceptional eye for authenticity and provenance.

Essential qualities in my line of work.”

“Indeed,” Sage says, clearly trying to recalibrate her approach. “Karma and I have had several professional interactions over the years. I’ve always admired her... resourcefulness.”

“Resourcefulness,” Sterling repeats thoughtfully. “How fascinating. Though I have to say, I’m curious about these professional services you mentioned. Could you elaborate on the specifics?”

The question hangs in the air like a sword. Sage’s eyes dart between Sterling and me, clearly realizing she’s walked into something far more complex than she anticipated, her theatrical poise deserting her completely.

“Oh, just the usual dealer-to-dealer consultations,” she says with forced lightness that fools no one. “Authentication questions, provenance research, that sort of thing.”

“I see.” Sterling’s tone suggests he sees much more than Sage intended to reveal. “And these finder’s fees you mentioned—are those standard practice in your... consultations?”

“Well, when one dealer helps facilitate particularly lucrative opportunities...”

“Particularly lucrative opportunities,” Sterling muses. “You know, I find it fascinating how items move through the antique trade. How a family heirloom might find its way from one collection to another through a series of... consultations.”

Sage has gone very pale beneath her dramatic makeup, foundation unable to hide the way color drains from her face. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating facts.” Sterling moves closer to the counter. “I know exactly how the Mitchell family compass came into my possession. I know exactly who sold it, when, and why. I also know exactly who purchased it as an intermediary.”

The silence is deafening. Fate looks as if she’s watching a tennis match played with hand grenades, hands still frozen on the clock.

“Mr. Ashworth,” Sage starts, but Sterling raises a hand with the kind of quiet authority that stops conversations mid-syllable.

“I also know,” he continues with devastating calm, “that the young woman who sold that compass has spent months feeling guilty about a moment of justified anger. That she’s proven herself to be one of the most ethical, knowledgeable, and talented maritime specialists I’ve encountered in thirty years of collecting.

That she’s exactly the kind of person I want representing my collection and my reputation. ”

He pauses, letting that sink in before continuing, fingers adjusting his glasses with practiced precision.

“What I find absolutely fascinating is encountering someone who thinks that the same young woman owes her money for... what did you call it? Professional discretion?” Sterling’s smile could freeze harbor water.

“As if ethical behavior were a commodity to be purchased rather than a baseline expectation.”

Sage opens and closes her mouth several times without producing sound, jewelry creating discordant notes as her hands shake.

“Now,” Sterling says pleasantly, “I believe you mentioned ongoing professional relationships. I think it’s important you understand that Karma Rose has my complete confidence and support.

Any attempt to threaten, intimidate, or extort her will be met with the full weight of my professional influence.

And Ms. Morrison, I do hope you understand what that means in our very small industry. ”

The threat is delivered with such polite warmth it takes a moment to sink in. When it does, Sage goes white, foundation unable to mask the complete drainage of color from her features.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding?—”

“I don’t think there has.” Sterling’s voice remains perfectly pleasant while carrying absolute finality.

“I think you came here expecting to exploit someone you perceived as vulnerable. I think you discovered instead that she has rather formidable protection. I think you’re now reconsidering your approach. ”

Behind me, Declan makes a sound that might be a growl, low and dangerous. The protective rage rolling off him is so intense I can feel it like heat against my back.

“Perhaps,” Sterling continues, “it would be wise for you to leave now. Before this conversation becomes even more uncomfortable.”

Sage looks around the shop as if she’s trying to find an escape route that doesn’t involve walking past a furious alpha and a millionaire who just threatened her professional reputation.

Her theatrical confidence has completely evaporated, leaving someone who looks smaller and significantly less dangerous, jewelry jangling with nervous tremors.

“Of course,” she says finally, voice lacking all its previous dramatic flair. “I believe I’ve... made my point.”

“Indeed you have,” Sterling agrees with deadly politeness. “Though perhaps not the point you intended.”

Sage gathers her flowing fabrics and dramatic jewelry, moving toward the door with as much dignity as she can manage while silk scarves tangle around her legs. At the threshold, she turns back, desperation making her voice sharp.

“Karma, this isn’t over?—”

“Yes,” Sterling says quietly, each word carrying absolute finality, “it is.”

The two words land like a gavel ending a trial. Sage flinches as if physically struck, then leaves without another word, the shop bell chiming her departure with cheerful indifference to the drama it’s just witnessed.

The silence that follows feels loaded with aftermath. The afternoon light seems brighter somehow, dust motes dancing peacefully again while the antique clocks resume their comfortable rhythm, as if the shop itself is exhaling relief. Fate stares at the door as if she’s expecting Sage to reappear.

“Well,” Sterling says finally, adjusting his cufflinks one more time. “That was enlightening.”

“Sterling, I—” I start, but he holds up a hand.

“Karma, my dear, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing to explain. Nothing to justify.” His smile is warm and paternal, transforming his entire demeanor from arctic authority to genuine care.

“What you have is a job offer from someone who values your expertise, your integrity, and your character. What you also have, apparently, is at least one person who fundamentally misunderstood the situation.”

“But she was right about the compass?—”

“She was right about the facts. She was completely wrong about the implications.” Sterling moves closer, his presence reassuring rather than intimidating, expensive cologne mixing with the shop’s familiar scents.

“My dear, I told you when I made the offer—I know everything. I ran a comprehensive background check. I know about Blake, about the theft, about your reasons. I also know about your character, your expertise, and your worth. ”

“You knew?” My voice comes out small, vanilla finally beginning to settle back toward its normal sweetness.

“I knew. I hired you anyway. I hired you because of who you are, not despite your past mistakes.” Sterling glances toward Declan, whose protective tension remains palpable. “And it appears I’m not the only one who sees your value.”

Declan moves closer, his large hand finding my shoulder with gentle pressure that settles my scattered nerves. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” I lean into his touch without thinking. “I just... I can’t believe she actually tried to blackmail me in front of you. What was her endgame there? Did she think you’d be impressed by her entrepreneurial spirit?”

“I can,” Sterling says drily, straightening his expensive coat. “Unfortunately, the antique trade attracts its share of opportunists. People who mistake others’ integrity for weakness, who think ethical behavior can be exploited rather than respected.”

“What happens now?” Fate asks quietly, finally setting down the ship’s clock. “I mean, legally speaking? Should we call someone?”

“Nothing,” Sterling says firmly. “Ms. Morrison made some vague threats but nothing actionable. And more importantly, she’s just learned that pursuing this particular vendetta would be professional suicide.

” His smile has sharp edges that speak to decades of navigating high-stakes negotiations.

“Word travels quickly in the maritime antique community. By tomorrow, everyone who matters will know that she attempted to extort my head assessor. Her reputation won’t recover. ”

“That seems harsh,” I say, though I’m not sure I mean it.

“That’s appropriate,” Sterling corrects, adjusting his glasses. “People like Ms. Morrison rely on others being too polite, too scared, or too isolated to fight back. Today she learned that some people have backup. ”

“Pack,” Declan says quietly, his hand still steady on my shoulder. “You have pack now.”

The simple truth of that statement hits harder than Sage’s threats. Six months ago, I would have faced this alone, probably would have paid whatever she demanded just to make the problem go away. Today, I had Sterling’s professional protection and Declan’s alpha backup without even asking for it.

“Thank you,” I say to both of them. Gratitude explodes in my chest, too big for words. “For standing up for me. For not letting her get away with it.”

“Thank you,” Sterling replies, “for being worth standing up for.”

The shop bell chimes again, and this time it’s Reed and Adrian walking in with coffee cups and concerned expressions.

They take one look at the residual tension in the room and immediately go alert—Reed enters first, ocean spray immediately sharpening as he scans the room, Adrian close behind with sandalwood going protective, both automatically flanking the exits.

“Okay, so clearly something happened,” Reed says, immediately scanning the room as if he’s assessing a diplomatic crisis, coffee cup forgotten in his hand. “Scale of one to international incident?”

“Define international incident,” I say with a shaky laugh, leaning deeper into Declan’s steadying presence. “Sage Morrison just tried to blackmail me in front of Sterling and got thoroughly destroyed for her trouble.”

“Blackmail?” Adrian’s sandalwood goes sharp with protective concern, his entire frame shifting into alert readiness. “What did she want?”

“Money. Credit. Access to Sterling’s network.” I lean into Declan’s solid presence. “Basically, she wanted to be paid for her discretion about the compass situation.”

“Bold strategy,” Reed says, setting his coffee on the counter and automatically positioning himself where he can see both entrances. “Terrible execution, but bold.”

“Bold of her to assume discretion was for sale,” Adrian observes, moving with deliberate quiet to complete our protective circle.

“Bold of her to assume I was still vulnerable,” I correct. “Six months ago, she would have been right. Today, she learned that threatening someone with pack and professional backing is a losing strategy.”

“Well,” Reed says with satisfaction, “I’m sure she won’t make that mistake again.”

“I’m sure she won’t get the opportunity,” Sterling adds. “Word spreads quickly in our community. By next week, everyone who matters will know exactly what kind of person she is.”

“So,” Fate says eventually, picking up the ship’s clock again with renewed confidence, “is this typical for the antique business? Because I should probably adjust my expectations accordingly.”

“No,” I laugh, my shoulders finally dropping for the first time in twenty minutes. “This is definitely not typical. Most of our drama involves pricing disputes and people trying to return obviously fake pieces they bought at garage sales.”

“Good to know. I was starting to wonder if I’d signed up for some kind of criminal enterprise.”

“Just the regular kind of criminal enterprise,” Reed says with a grin that transforms his entire face with mischief. “You know, buying low, selling high, occasionally helping people launder their grandmother’s guilt through strategic estate sales.”

“Reed,” I protest, but I’m smiling.

“What? I’m just saying, the emotional money laundering business is very lucrative. People pay excellent prices to feel better about family drama.”

Sterling laughs—genuine, delighted laughter that transforms his entire face from professional authority to genuine warmth. “I like your pack, Karma. They have excellent priorities.”

“They’re not bad,” I agree, warmth spreading through my chest. “They’re definitely growing on me.”

“Growing on you?” Declan’s voice carries mock offense. “We’re bonded. I think we’ve moved past the growing stage.”

“Fine. You’ve fully grown on me. Like particularly attractive barnacles.”

“Romantic,” Adrian says drily. “Nothing says eternal love like maritime parasite metaphors.”

“Hey, barnacles are incredibly tenacious. Once they attach, they’re permanent.” I grin at all three of them. “I could do worse for a pack bonding analogy.”

“Much worse,” Reed agrees. “I was expecting something about anchors or compasses. Barnacles are refreshingly unexpected.”

“Speaking of unexpected,” Sterling says, adjusting his coat with renewed purpose, “I should probably get back to examining your inventory. Near-blackmail attempts aside, I’m genuinely curious about some of the pieces you’ve collected.”

“Of course! And thank you again for...” I gesture vaguely toward the door where Sage made her dramatic exit.

“For recognizing quality when I see it,” Sterling says simply, his smile warm with paternal affection. “Both in antiques and in people.”

Sage was wrong about a lot of things, but she was right about one: everything did work out remarkably well for me.

And for the first time, I’m starting to believe I actually deserve it.