Page 3

Emmie

The morning sun filters through the sedan’s foggy windshield as Mom travels the winding country road, her knuckles white against the steering wheel.

I’ve been staring out of the passenger window for the past hour, watching endless pine trees blur into a green haze while my mind is tangled with memories of Beck’s hands, his voice calling me “baby girl,” and the way he disappeared without a trace.

My throat feels raw from holding back tears. It’s ridiculous really. It was one night. That’s all it was. One perfect, impossible night with a man whose surname I don’t even know.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” Mom says, her voice carrying that forced brightness she’s perfected since she married my stepfather. But her shoulders have softened and her voice seems lighter. Maybe she escaped for herself too. “According to the GPS it’s just over this hill.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

The car crests the hill, and my breath catches.

“Jesus,” I whisper, then immediately clap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, Mom.”

Silvercrest Manor spreads before us like something from a gothic novel, ivy-covered stone walls. The late afternoon sun dazzles on the diamond-paned windows, and the surrounding gardens roll away toward dense forest in every direction. It’s beautiful and imposing and completely overwhelming.

It also looks very safe.

She laughs. “I had the same reaction when I saw the photos online. Can you imagine working in a place like this?”

“Who are you working for again?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know. People who live in houses like this have money. And in my experience, money means power, and power means danger.

Mom’s smile tightens slightly. “Mr. Silver. He lives here with his family—two sons and a daughter, and I was lucky to get the job. They needed a full-time housekeeper to start immediately, as the old one is leaving soon.”

“Are they...” I swallow hard. “Are they Alphas?”

“Probably.” Mom’s hand finds mine across the center console, squeezing gently. “But we won’t be living in the main house, remember? There’s a cottage on the grounds that comes with the position. Our own space. Our own sanctuary.”

The word ‘sanctuary’ makes something loosen in my chest. That’s what we need—a place where Blake can’t find us, can’t touch us, can’t sell me to the highest bidder like he did my sisters, or worse, keep me for himself.

Well, he tried to sell my sisters, but Ella sold herself and Ava made a deal with her Alphas.

Only Lottie was sold into a loveless marriage to a mafia man.

Mom won’t talk about Lottie. She blames herself that her daughter was so distraught at her own wedding and begged her to take her home.

I know. I see the guilt in her eyes every time her daughters’ names come up.

When we reach the entrance, Mom drives through massive wrought-iron gates that opened automatically, our beat-up Ford feeling ridiculously out of place on the pristine gravel drive.

We pass beautifully landscaped gardens, a fountain that probably costs more than most people’s houses, and what looks like a small lake glinting through the trees.

“This is insane,” I murmur. “What kind of people live like this?”

“The kind who can protect us,” Mom says quietly. “Mrs. Reynolds mentioned that Mr. Silver values privacy. The estate is completely secure—walls, cameras, the works. Blake could never get to us here.”

The hope in her voice breaks my heart. She’s been living with her mistakes for so long, carrying the weight of what she let happen to her daughters. But I can’t help wondering if we’re just trading one cage for one brighter.

A woman emerges from the main house as we park near a smaller building tucked behind a rose garden. She’s probably in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun and kind eyes that crinkle at the corners.

“That must be Mrs. Reynolds,” Mom says, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Remember, your name is—"

“Jolie Masters,” I finish the sentence for her. “I know, Mom. I won't blow our cover.”

She nods, but I can see the anxiety on the set of her shoulders. We’ve practiced this story a hundred times: Rita Masters, widowed housekeeper looking for a fresh start with her college-age daughter.

Mrs. Reynolds approaches our car with a warm smile, her practical shoes crunching on the gravel. She’s wearing a simple blue dress and a white apron, and something about her demeanor immediately puts me at ease.

“You must be Rita,” she says as Mom steps out of the car. “I’m Janet Reynolds. Welcome to Silvercrest Manor.”

“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” Mom replies, shaking Mrs. Reynolds’ offered hand. “This is my daughter, Jolie.”

I climb out of the passenger seat, suddenly self-conscious in my wrinkled jeans and oversized hoodie. Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes are sharp as they assess me. “Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”

“Pleasure to meet you, dear,” she says. “Mrs. Reynolds will do fine, or Janet if you prefer. I understand you’ll be starting at the local college?”

“Yes, Mrs. Reynolds,” I manage. “Thank you for helping arrange the enrollment.”

“Nonsense. Education is important, especially for young Omega women.” There’s something in her tone that suggests she speaks from experience. “Now, let me show you to your home. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”

The cottage is tucked away from the front of the main house.

It overlooks the rear of the house and has a wall of flowering climbing ivy that fills the air with sweetness.

It’s small but perfect, like the kind you read about in fairytales.

Stone walls, diamond-paned windows, the garden is filled with flowers, and a red door that looks like another world is on the other side.

“This is our new home,” Mom breathes, and I can hear the relief in her voice.

It’s a far cry from what we’ve come from, but it looks a lot more like home.

Mrs. Reynolds produces an old-fashioned key from her apron pocket. “I lived here for nearly ten years. I’m only leaving because my husband wants to retire to sunnier climates. Hardest decision I’ve ever made.”

“And you’re leaving in two weeks?” Mom asks.

“That’ll be more than enough time to get you acquainted with everything.” She turns the key in the lock and opens the door.

Inside, the cottage is even more charming. Exposed wooden beams cross the ceiling, and a stone fireplace dominates the living area. The furniture is simple but well-made, and everything smells of lemon polish and dried lavender. It’s actually quite overwhelming.

“Two bedrooms upstairs and a shared bathroom,” Mrs. Reynolds explains, leading us through the space. “Full kitchen, though you’re welcome to take meals at the main house if you prefer. The family is quite informal about such things.”

Upstairs, I peek into the smaller bedroom and immediately fall in love with the window seat overlooking the gardens and the back of the main house. Sunlight streams through the glass, casting rainbow patterns on the hardwood floor.

“It’s perfect,” I say, and mean it.

Mrs. Reynolds beams. “I’m so glad you think so. Now, Rita, shall we walk through your duties? The family is quite reasonable, but there are some...particular requirements.”

As the two women discuss cleaning schedules and meal preferences and the staff Mom will need to manage, I drift to the window, watching the grounds. The whole place feels like a different world, one where I might actually be safe.

“Jolie?” Mrs. Reynolds’ voice pulls me back to the conversation.

“I was just telling your mother about the family dynamics. Mr. Silver is often away on business, but when he’s home, he’s very hands-on with the household.

And Elias manages the grounds. He’s a lovely man, you’ll meet him soon. And then there are the children.”

“Children?” I ask, though something in her tone suggests they’re not exactly children.

“Well, Romeo is twenty-one, so hardly a child, I suppose. He’s finishing his degree at college. You’ll likely see him around campus.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “He’s...spirited. But harmless.”

The way she says ‘harmless’ makes me think she doesn’t entirely believe it herself.

“And the daughter?” Mom asks.

“River and Remi. River is the oldest, and he plays ice hockey. Remi, she’s twenty-four and away for most of the year. She’s a future Olympian. Figure skater. Such a sweet girl, when she’s home.” Mrs. Reynolds glances at her watch. “Speaking of which, she is competing this weekend.”

My stomach knots at the thought of meeting more strangers, more people who might notice something different about me.

“Will we be expected to serve dinner?” Mom asked me to help her for a few weeks until she got to know her way around the house.

“Oh no, dear. The family has a cook for formal meals. Your mother’s duties are more general housekeeping, cleaning, laundry, organization.

Nothing too strenuous.” Mrs. Reynolds’ expression softens.

“Mr. Silver specifically requested that his staff have reasonable hours and personal time. For an Alpha, he’s quite progressive in that regard. Anyway, I should let you unpack.”

After Mrs. Reynolds leaves us to settle in, Mom and I unpack our few belongings in relative silence. I can feel her relief radiating through the small space. But I’m the same. It feels like for the first time in months, we’re not looking over our shoulders or jumping at every unexpected sound.

“This could really work,” she says as we put away the last of our clothes. “Mrs. Reynolds seems lovely, the cottage is beautiful, and the pay is more than generous.”

“What about the family?” I ask, settling onto my bed. “What if they’re like Blake? What if they—“

“They won’t be,” Mom interrupts, but there’s steel in her voice now. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again, Emmie. I promise.”

It’s the same promise she made when dad died. The same promise she made when she married Blake. But I don’t say that. Instead, I nod and try to believe her.

As daylight disappears, I hear laughter and conversation drifting across the gardens from the main house.

“I should introduce myself to the cook,” Mom says, checking her appearance in the small mirror. “Mrs. Reynolds mentioned they coordinate on household schedules.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask, though the thought of facing a house full of strangers makes my skin crawl.

“No, sweetheart. You’ve had enough for one day. Why don’t you call Ella? Your sister doesn’t live too far away from here. Perhaps we can visit once we’ve settled in.”

I nod, grateful for the reprieve.

After Mom leaves, I curl up on the window seat with my phone, watching the sun set over the manor grounds. Everything is so green here, so alive. The air through the open window smells of roses and pine and something else—something clean and earthy that reminds me of rain.

I don’t ring Ella; I call the sister I’m not supposed to call—Lottie.

But Lottie’s phone goes straight to voicemail, as it has for the past three days.

I try not to panic. She’s probably fine.

But it doesn’t stop something cold settling in my stomach.

I press her name on my phone again and wait when movement near the main house catches my eye.

A young man emerges from what looks like a side entrance, his silhouette tall and lean against the golden light spilling from the windows.

Even from this distance, I can tell he’s powerful.

An Alpha, definitely. It’s in the way he moves, the set of his shoulders; everything about him screams dominance.

He pauses on the terrace, running a hand through his dark hair, and for a moment, his posture suggests he is frustrated. Or angry.

Then he turns, and though I can’t make out his features clearly, I watch as his gaze sweeps across the gardens. Looking for something. Or someone.

When his attention passes over the cottage, I instinctively shrink back from the window, my heart hammering for no reason. He can’t smell me. Nobody can. So I don’t have to worry.

This must be one of the sons that Mrs. Reynolds mentioned.

I don’t know why, but something about him makes my skin prickle with awareness.

The feeling is familiar yet unwelcome—the same electric tension I felt with Beck, that pull toward danger disguised as desire.

I force myself to look away, focusing on the peaceful gardens instead of the man who dominates the terrace like he owns the world. Which, I suppose, he does.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Mom: Cook is lovely. Home soon. Heat up the soup Mrs. R left for us.

I’m grateful for the domestic task, something normal to focus on instead of the growing unease in my chest. As I heat our simple dinner, I try to convince myself that in a few days it will be better.

Starting college will be a distraction where I can blend in and be normal and forget about Alpha men with expensive suits and possessive eyes.

But as I ladle soup into bowls, I can’t shake the memory of Beck’s hands on my skin, his voice in my ear—and the payment he left on the table.

When Mom returns, she’s practically glowing with relief, and her talk is full of optimism. She chatters about the cook, the beautiful kitchen, the reasonable expectations.

“This is our fresh start, Emmie,” Mom says as we finish dinner.

I smile and nod and try to match her enthusiasm.

“I can feel it. Everything is going to be different now.”

I want to believe her. I need to believe her. But when I look out of the window again, I can’t shake off the feeling that our troubles are just beginning.

Mom comes up behind me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders, and looks to the same place I am. “We’re safe now. Blake will never find us here.”

“I hope so.” I lean into her embrace, wanting desperately to believe her. But I’ve seen the darkness in Alphas’ eyes when they think they’ve caught my scent. The hunger. The possession. Just like Beck did. And I let him do things to me I shouldn’t have.

“This time, I am not believing anyone but you.” The words are the right ones, but I’m not so sure about Mom anymore. She gave up her daughters for that man. Only now, when she has one daughter left, has she seen the light? But now isn’t the time to argue about that.

“Get some sleep,” Mom says, kissing my temple. “Tomorrow is the start of your new life. Your first day of normal.”

Normal.

As if such a thing exists for an Omega like me.