Knot Ready For Love (Omega Royals #2)

Chapter 1

Piper

You’d think by album number six I’d know exactly what I’m doing. Instead, I’m hunched over a battered legal pad in Recording Booth B while chewing on the end of a felt-tip pen. How many more ways I can rhyme “love” with “above” before my brain just slips out my ear and tries to crawl away?

Maaaybe two more.

Every inch of this booth is padded in purple foam, keeping sound where it should be, but I swear the thudding of my own heartbeat is distracting me in ways I’ve never noticed before.

I’m supposed to be finishing vocals for the third track on the album—the grand finale of my indentured pop princess contract with Reverie Rest Records, the proud creative mill that’s owned my soul (and, in fine print, my public image, merchandise, and residual rights in perpetuity) for the last six years. But I just… can’t. Nothing is coming.

I take a breath and try out the line: “Is it a blessing or a curse, every chorus, every verse—” then sigh and cross it out.

Fucking melodramatic.

A flick of motion in the outer booth window catches my eye.

It’s my bodyguard Nolan, standing as he always does—close by but never in the way.

His arms are crossed and he rests with this back against the wall, face set in his default expression of “stoic redwood in a storm.” A little part of me is convinced he never sleeps, just powers down for a reboot and reappears in the same spot as he has done for years now.

He lifts his eyes to mine, one eyebrow arched.

I give him the finger. He doesn’t flinch, but the tiniest corner of his mouth quirks up.

That’s his gift: being utterly unflappable.

Except when I’m involved. I grin.

“You’ll get it,” he says. I can’t hear him but I make it out from reading his lips.

My phone vibrates on the console. I check it.

Raelynn: “I’ll be at the booth in two. Don’t start another one without me.”

There’s no point responding. Raelynn is an old-school shark: she can smell digital blood in the water and, like all apex predators, requires no confirmation from her prey. She’ll be here in exactly—

The studio door swings open at the ninety-second mark.

Raelynn enters in a fancy suit skirt so sharp it could perform surgery.

She’s nothing but a blur of tailored navy and the scent of weaponized ambition.

She’s flanked by an intern, this one holding a stack of color-coded binders and looking as if she might crumple at any moment.

“Piper, darling.” Raelynn doesn’t bother hiding the impatience in her voice. “Are you ready for a break?”

The answer, obviously, is yes. “Of course. Was just about to start my mandated decompression time.”

“Good girl.” She doesn’t even try to look pleased. “We need to talk about the schedule. And a new development.”

I’ve been in this business long enough to know that when your manager’s tone drops an octave, “new development” is code for “brace yourself an opportunity that comes with a built-in panic attack.”

Raelynn glances through the glass at Nolan. “Your favorite bodyguard will have to join as well.”

Nolan makes eye contact with Raelynn then shifts his gaze to me. I smile at him and wave him inside.

Nolan pushes off the wall and opens the door, the hinge barely whispering in protest despite his bulk. He takes up his position just inside, hands behind his back, attention focused on the conversation but also, somehow, on every possible threat within a half-mile radius.

“Cute,” Raelynn mutters. “Okay. Here it is.” She gestures at the intern, who hands over a single sheet of paper as if she’s passing a bomb—which, in the music industry, she probably is.

“You have been formally requested to perform at the annual Royal Hale Family Gala. This year the theme is ‘Harvest of Hearts,’ and all proceeds go to the Feeding the Future food bank initiative.”

For a second, I think she’s joking. She’s not. I’d bet my last packet of ramen that she hasn’t made a joke since 2017.

“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “The royal family? Like, the actual?”

“Yes, Piper,” she confirms and then crosses her arms. “The King and Queen, their son. Plus a dozen other princes, princesses, socialites, dignitaries, and whomever else they decide are worthy of being there. They want the hottest name in pop for the opening before they get down to fundraising business.”

I choke out a laugh. “Are you sure they didn’t mean to invite a different Piper?” I’m famous—I fill stadiums and draw crowds. But I didn’t think I was on the Royal Family’s radar famous. Or their PR firm’s.

Raelynn levels a stare that could sear paint from the wall. “You’re the hottest name in pop, Piper. Own it.”

“Not sure I’m really ‘royal’ material.” I lean back in the chair, which tries and fails to accommodate my slouch. “Most of my songs have at least two swear words and a reference to recreational arson.”

Nolan grunts. “Three, if you count the bonus track.”

Raelynn ignores him. “You’re going. I need you to show up sober, dressed like a dignitary, and ready to charm the living hell out of every old-money donor in a five-mile radius. This is not an ask, Piper. It’s a career move. One that sets you up for platinum sales and international dates.”

Which I already have.

But she means for the next album, and all the other next albums she’s hoping I re-sign with Reverie Rest for.

She’s not wrong. If I were advising me, I’d probably slap myself for even hesitating.

Instead, I try to imagine what it would feel like to walk into a room where I’m not just the entertainment or the headliner.

Not the one everyone’s whispering about, even if half the whispers are complaints about my outfit or my hair or my “frankly appalling disregard for social etiquette.” (Direct quote, from a newspaper review of my first world tour. I printed it on a t-shirt.)

I can’t imagine it. That’s not my life anymore. I’m Piper Sumner, multi-platinum and award-winning artist. Not the teenager Raelynn discovered from my videos going viral online.

Nolan shrugs. “You could do worse.”

I want to ask what, exactly, is worse than a ballroom full of aristocrats and their Instagram-influencer offspring, but Raelynn’s already barreling forward.

“You’ll need to do a completely new setlist. Something more…

elevated.” She doesn’t bother to elaborate, but I know exactly what she means.

My first two albums were acoustic indie, dripping with heartfelt lyrics and strategically tasteful harmonies.

Then the label pivoted me into pop, and I started charting with breakup anthems and songs about glitter and sex and very little else.

“They want the old you, but with the new you’s production values. I need a draft by Tuesday.”

“Why do you make it sound like I have a secret twin hidden in the attic?” I can do it, but the fact she thinks I can just magic shit out of anywhere all the time is something else.

Raelynn glances at her phone. “I have to go. There are three press calls, and the royals’ PR team wants a wardrobe preview before the end of the day. I’ve already scheduled a fitting. Please, for the love of god, try not to destroy the stylist.”

I mock-salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Raelynn is gone before the air can cool. Her intern trails after her. The room is suddenly huge, echoing with the aftershock of her energy.

I let my head thump back against the foam wall and close my eyes. “Well. That’s a first.”

Nolan clears his throat. “You’re not excited?”

“I mean, define ‘excited.’” I open one eye and peek at him. “On the one hand: exposure, philanthropy, and free canapés. On the other: socialites and at least one attempted scandal.”

Nolan grunts again. Most of the time that’s all I get from my bodyguard. But every now and then I see past the hard-walled exterior Nolan puts up. “You say that like it’s a downside.”

“If it ends up as clickbait, I hope they use my good side.” Then I realize and pull out my phone to text Raelynn. “I’ll have her make sure you’re fitted for a suit, too.” There’s no way in hell I’m chasing after Raelynn on foot over this. That woman moves far too fast when on a mission.

He nods. “Thank you. I’ll be right beside you.

” He says it with such a matter-of-fact seriousness that I think he means more than just standing in a corner and looking intimidating.

Then he glances at my hair, which is currently a riot of pink, and adds, “Maybe avoid the explosives this time. No royal party fireworks.”

“It was one time,” I protest, “and it was literally a birthday cake sparkler.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a twist again. “The fire alarm says otherwise.”

I release a half-hearted sigh.

There’s an ease to our banter that makes me ache a little. Nolan is, by any reasonable metric, absurdly attractive—think “Viking warlord in a craft brewery” vibes—but he’s also smart and infuriatingly loyal. But he’s my bodyguard, so nothing can happen.

Sadly.

My life feels like the movies much of the time, but not ever that aspect.

I stand up and stretch. There’s a familiar pop in my lower back that, when it goes off, releases hours of song-writing tension. “Well. Guess I’m getting fitted for a ballgown and learning how to curtsy better.”

Going to need about twenty Handsome Hands Bakery videos to calm down enough to sleep after, too. Who said some mild baking ASMR wasn’t soothing?

Nolan actually chuckles. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Shut up. I’ll bring you a tiara.”

He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His gaze softens just a fraction. “If anyone could pull it off, it’s you.”

It’s such a simple thing, but coming from him, the words land harder than any of Raelynn’s pep talks.

I look down at the notepad filled with a mess of crossed-out lines and half-rhymes, and wonder if I really can conjure the old me from the attic. Or if that girl got left behind somewhere between the tour buses and the press junkets.

Whatever. The royals want a show, I’ll give them the best damn performance they’ve ever seen.

I rip off the page, crumple it into a ball, and toss it into the trash. “Let’s go,” I say to Nolan. “We have an appointment with spandex shapewear.”

He opens the door, bows like a medieval page, and gestures for me to go first. I can’t help but laugh, even if I’m walking straight into the maw of high society.

The last thing I hear before the door closes behind us is the softest possible, “You’ve got this, Piper.”

I wonder if I’m the only one who heard it.

Then we’re out in the hallway, and the next chapter of my not-so-fairy-tale life begins.

First step: find a dress that could stun a roomful of royalty, and maybe—just maybe—get Nolan politeness lessons so he doesn’t look like he’s two seconds from tackling someone into the punch bowl.