Page 23 of Jax & Knox

But they keep showing up anyway.

I'm folding laundry on the couch when I hear another knock.

This time, I don't tense. I just stand and move to the door, opening it to find Scarlett standing there with a notebook tucked under her arm and a no-nonsense expression on her face.

"Got a minute?" she asks, already stepping inside.

"Of course."

She glances around the cottage, taking in the details, the new crib visible through the hallway, the wildflowers I picked this morning sitting in a jar on the kitchen counter, the laundry basket on the couch.

"Looks good in here," she says, moving to the kitchen table and setting down her notebook. "Sit."

I sit.

Scarlett flips open the notebook and pulls out a pen. "Let's talk money."

My stomach drops. "I don't have⁠⁠—"

"I know. That's why we're doing this." She starts writing, her pen moving quickly across the page. "Right now, the club is covering your housing, utilities, and basic groceries. That's not changing."

"But—"

"No buts. You're under club protection, which means you're family. Family doesn't pay rent." She doesn't look up from her notes. "Once you start working at Perdition, you'll earn a paycheck. Tips are yours to keep. We'll set up a savings account for you, something separate, something that's yours ."

I blink hard, refusing to cry.

"What if I can't⁠⁠—"

"You can." She slides the notebook across the table so I can see the numbers she's written down. Income. Expenses. Savings goals. "This is what you'll have after your first month. And this is what you'll have after six months if you stick to the plan."

I stare at the numbers, my chest tight.

"You need to know where you stand," Scarlett says, her voice firm but not unkind. "You need to know you can do this."

I look up at her, and for the first time in a long time, I believe it.

"Thank you," I whisper.

She nods, closing the notebook. "You've got this."

And then she's gone.

I sit at the table for a long time after she leaves, staring at the numbers she wrote down, feeling something I haven't felt in years.

Hope.

Hadley shows up around two with a stack of casserole dishes balanced in her arms and a bright smile on her face.

"Delivery!" she announces, breezing past me into the kitchen before I can even say hello.

"Hadley—"

"Nope. No arguments." She starts loading the casseroles into the fridge, rearranging things to make them fit. "You've got lasagna, chicken and rice, shepherd's pie, and mac and cheese. All you have to do is heat them up."

I watch her work, overwhelmed by the simple kindness of it.

"How are you settling in?" she asks, closing the fridge and turning to face me.