Page 86 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

“I’ll bring everything to your place before we leave.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Sebastian.”

“See you soon, Ada.”

The line went dead, and I was left standing in the quiet kitchen, her voice still echoing in my mind.

Sandwiches. Right. I could do that. But first, I let myself breathe for a second—just one. Because tomorrow would be chaos. And I was going to survive it with my mate by my side.

When the last prep station was scrubbed clean, the kitchen finally dimmed, and the others filtered out with tired goodnights and aching backs, I didn’t head straight to Ada’s place.

I should’ve. I was exhausted. My shoulders felt like stone and tomorrow's pressure buzzed behind my eyes like static. But instead of walking to the bus stop, I turned left—toward the local furniture market just two streets over, tucked between a bakery and a bookstore that always smelled like ink and cinnamon.

I didn’t know what I was looking for until I saw it.

A green pillow.

Not just any green. A deep, mossy shade with just enough texture to look like it belonged in a fairytale forest or, more realistically, on Ada’s couch—nestled somewhere between the seafoam velvet and the sage knit one she always leaned on when she read emails too late into the night.

She had a lot of pillows. An absurd number, honestly. But I was pretty sure she didn’t have this shade.

So I bought it.

Not flowers. Not chocolates. Not jewelry.

A pillow.

Soft and steady and green. Something small that would stay. Maybe it was stupid, maybe she'd roll her eyes and ask if I was trying to help her build a fort, but gods, I hoped she'd smile.

When I finally boarded the bus, the bag holding the pillow rested on my lap like something fragile. And for the first time all day, despite the exhaustion and the whirlwind ahead, I felt calm.

Because I was going home to her.

And tomorrow, we’d face whatever came—together.

CHAPTER 20

Ada

Heaven’s Door loomed ahead, carved into the mountain like something out of a myth.

Some of the staff riding the minibus had never been up here before, and I could hear their gasps and half-whispered “look at that” as we made the winding ascent. I didn’t blame them—the road curved like ribbon through hills set ablaze by autumn. Reds, golds, deep burnt oranges. The trees looked like they were on fire in the best way. Nature, dramatic and unapologetically bold.

But as breathtaking as the scenery was, the moment we pulled up to the venue, it was game time.

“Generators up?” I barked the second I jumped off the minibus, not even checking if my boots were fully laced.

“Running!”

“Good. I want the kitchen tent at 90% in fifteen. I want burners hot. I want knives sharp. I want mise en place like your life depends on it—because guess what? Today, it does.”

Yes, I was yelling. No, I didn’t care. This wasn’t brunch. This was a high-profile event for one of the most terrifying women to ever wear vintage Chanel and call ithumble. This was legacy. Reputation. My name.

Inside the tent, heat clung to the air like steam off a volcano. Burners flared. Someone dropped a ladle and I nearly took their hand off with a look.

“Mia! I want those tartlets done yesterday.”

“They’re in the oven!”

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