Page 2 of Knot on the Market

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 liesdefeated 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.

It turns easily in the lock, which is either a good sign or a concerning statement about the security situation in Honeyridge Falls.

The door swings open, and I step inside.

The smell hits me first, not mold or dust or any of the horrors I'd been bracing for. But something clean and faintlysweet, like lavender and lemon oil. Someone cared for this place once, cleaned it thoroughly before they left. No lingering scent of previous owners, no ghost of pack bonds or alpha posturing or omega heat.

Nothing.

For the first time in years, I'm standing in a space that doesn't smell like them.

The floorboards creak under my feet, announcing my arrival to the house itself. I set my suitcase down in the tiny entryway and really look around. The living room is small but bright, with hardwood floors that need refinishing and walls that could use a fresh coat of paint. There's a stone fireplace that looks functional, and in front of it sits a worn leather armchair that's seen better days but looks impossibly comfortable.

I walk over to the chair and sink into it, and suddenly the enormity of what I've done hits me.

I bought a house. Sight unseen. In a town I'd never heard of until three days ago, based on nothing more than a real estate listing and the desperate need to prove I could make my own decisions.

This is either the bravest thing I've ever done or I'm about to learn some very expensive lessons about self-sufficiency.

I look around the empty room and see all the things the sunny photos managed to hide. Water stains on the ceiling that definitely weren't in the listing. Wallpaper peeling in the corners like it's trying to escape. Floorboards that creak ominously even when I'm sitting still.

This isn't a charming fixer-upper. This is a project. A beautiful, expensive, overwhelming project that's going to require me to learn skills I've never needed before and handle problems I've never had to solve.

And I'll be doing it all alone, without anyone to call when things go wrong, without anyone to tell me what I should want or how I should feel about it.

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