Page 106 of Knot So Social

A gun shot rings out, smashing into my nervous system.

My thoughts grow silent, waiting for the pain to come. But only the familiar ache of bruises rolls through me. I reach the side gate and my heart pounds so hard it seems to rock my body as I lean half out to punch the security code into the box.

As the gate crawls open, Mr Warkov pounds along the pathway behind me, faintly backlit by the shed’s light. Another gunshot barks, a loud metallic tink saying it hit the trailer. I duck and cover my head.

He roars a garbled word—German. One he didn’t teach me. Two black shadows streak out of the dark, angling straight for me.

I leap for my seat faster than I’ve moved in my life. Teeth snap by my heels as I kick the dogs’ heads away. Throwing the car into gear, I roll forward, giving me just enough space to slam the door closed. My foot might be bleeding, but I don’t care as I stomp the accelerator to the floor and roar down the street, gasping and shaking.

My home disappears in the rear view, swallowed up by the darkness.

Chapter thirty-three

Willow

I check my phone for the fourth time. Alessandro didn’t show up for breakfast and hasn’t answered my texts. Mr Shares whines and lifts his head to stare at me, reacting to my anxiousness.

“I’m sure everything’s fine,” I murmur as I cling wrap the alpha’s share of breakfast and slide it into the fridge. “People get held up all the time.”

Which makes today the perfect time to start filming my next faux-travel sequence. My wonderful PA tours around and films with a vacant space in the shot while I record in front of my green screen. Then my tech guy marries the two together, and voila! I’m no longer a house bound omega.

By all appearances at least.

In the early years, it wasn’t necessary, but as my brand grew, so did the comments asking difficult questions. Ones asking: where do I like to holiday? Or saying I must see so much of the world. It grew to the point where I couldn’t keep fobbing people off. And as all influencers know, you have to keep feeding the beast what it asks for, or risk irrelevance.

And my viewers must absolutely see me jet setting around the world. I even have a ton of B roll with me getting in and out of private jets and walking across stages. A lie? Yes. But also necessary.

I dress the part in a brand-new scallop necked silk shirt and white pants before tucking my earpiece in place and calling my personal assistant.

“Hey, are you able to run me through the coffee shop scene now?”

“Yeah, okay, let me send the script over. It’s three minutes long, so that’s all you have.”

My phone lights up with her message and I click the photo. “Where are we today?” I ask.

“Luxembourg. A city called Remich . . . I looked for the easiest one to pronounce.” She giggles before continuing. “Your script is in your email. Wine tasting, walk along the river, a look at Fontaine Bacchus, and the Saint-Nicholas Spa.”

I do a quick search for the place, fixing the aesthetic in my mind. A quick run over the script she’s prepared puts me at ease, the sheet needing only minor tweaks to make it easier to recite. After practicing over the phone with her, I hang up and begin my set up. A round table covered with a plain white cloth goes in front of the greenscreen, along with a chair that I hang my jacket over to completely cover its pattern.

I roll the menu around on my tongue as I fix the lighting to look more natural and make myself a coffee in a white café-style cup. I spend ages with the froth and end up starting again from scratch with a second drink, getting a pattern in it that looks like the one my assistant sent me.

I envy her freedom of getting on a plane or hiring a car and going where she pleases. Maybe it’s worse that I remember how it used to feel, the freedom, the feeling of safety.

Now I know better. Zeus—or something like him—waits out there, ready to smite me the moment I step out of the shadows.

And so I carry on filming my harmless lies in order for the omegas I serve to also experience true freedom.

Three minutes isn’t much time, once I get going, gushing about my mini holiday to Europe and how quaint everything is here in Luxembourg. The camera gear and the fan to stir my hair are my only witnesses. I’m used to the gear, but the solitude seems extra thick today, without Alessandro in the house. I’m about done filming when my light gear blinks off.

“What the ef?” I get up and check all the leads are plugged in properly but can’t find anything wrong, so I tip the stand upside down. The globe inside clinks ominously.

The doorbell rings, shocking me so much I drop the light.

“Shit!” I mutter, catching the stand just in time.

Mr Shares goes barking through the house, and my pulse leaps. Maybe Alessandro’s here.

I curse my ruined hip as I limp down the hallway to check the security cameras. An unfamiliar van sits in front of the gates, but as I peer closer, Jeremy winds down his window and waves.