Page 16 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

GILDED CAGES

~ A UREN~

The tension at the dinner table is so thick I could cut it with the steak knife I'm currently gripping with more force than necessary.

My eyes stay focused on my plate as I methodically work on cutting my steak into precise, uniform pieces—a mindless task that keeps me from having to make prolonged eye contact with my parents while they undoubtedly analyze every micro-expression on my face.

I'm wearing a tight-fitting black gown that hugs every curve of my body from chest to floor, strapless and elegant in the kind of way that screams expensive taste and old money. The color choice feels appropriate, like I'm attending a funeral— possibly my own.

The dress shows off my collarbone tattoo, delicate script that I can't quite remember getting but somehow feels important, as well as the elaborate back piece that's visible thanks to the deep slit that runs from the base of my spine to just below my shoulder blades.

I'm about to reach for the mashed potatoes when a butler materializes at my side like a well-trained ghost, already anticipating what I was reaching for and offering me the dish with practiced efficiency.

Right. Butler service. Rich people problems.

I accept the potatoes with a polite nod, trying not to let my discomfort with all this formal wealth show too obviously.

The dining room we're sitting in could probably house three families comfortably, with its soaring ceilings, crystal chandelier, and artwork that I'm pretty sure costs more than most people make in a year.

"So, sweetheart," my father says, breaking the careful silence that's been hovering over our meal like a storm cloud, "how have things been going for you lately?"

I pause in my potato-serving to consider the question.

"Smooth, I guess," I answer honestly, setting the dish down and picking up my fork.

"Still don't remember much of anything useful.

I've been looking for some kind of employment to pass the time, but nothing's really connecting, especially when I can't recall what I was actually good at before the accident. "

My mother delicately dabs at her lips with her cloth napkin, the gesture somehow managing to look both elegant and disapproving at the same time.

"Perhaps you should try exploring some new hobbies instead of focusing on employment right away," she suggests, her tone carrying that particular brand of maternal authority that brooks no argument.

"Pilates would be perfect for you, darling.

It's an excellent way to stretch, work out, and strengthen muscles you're not accustomed to using.

Plus, it's highly approved of in our social circles. "

My father nods in agreement, cutting into his own steak with the kind of precision that suggests he approaches everything in life with the same methodical control.

"Your mother's right. It would be beneficial because wealthy Alphas tend to appreciate a woman who takes proper care of herself and maintains an appropriate level of physical fitness."

I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth, studying both my parents with growing irritation.

The idea of even doing Pilates, slower movements that would be better for ballerinas than a girl who used to drive fast or even dare believe competed in anything, seems like going from one spectrum to the other.

The very suggestion of Pilates— those slow, controlled movements, every motion measured, every flex and pulse of muscle deliberate and precise —grates against something essential in me.

I know, objectively, it's supposed to be a great workout, but it feels more like a performance for approval, a trend for the kind of women who grew up in ballet studios and spent their adolescence perfecting arabesques rather than slamming gears and burning rubber.

I might not remember every detail of who I used to be, but if muscle memory is any indication, I wasn't built for delicate stretches and soft, ladylike exertion.

I want to scoff, to roll my eyes, but I catch myself just in time.

Instead, I watch the steam curl off my mashed potatoes, the butter melting in a slow, hypnotic spiral, and let the silence stretch.

There’s a stubbornness in my bones the Pilates girls probably wouldn’t understand—the kind that wants to run entire mountain passes just to see if my lungs hold out, or swim open water without looking back at the shore.

I’d rather spend two straight hours on a rowing machine than contort myself into a candle pose, and the thought of being forced into any box, let alone one lined with yoga mats and brand endorsements, makes my skin prickle.

My mother would never understand this.

I can sense her disappointment hovering just beyond the reach of her carefully neutral expression, the same way I sense my father’s rigid expectations coiling through every compliment, every offhand remark about what “real Alphas” value.

I keep my tongue bitten, at least for the moment, and try to picture myself in a Pilates class.

All I see are mirrors, sterile white walls, a roomful of women in matching leggings and sports bras, perfect hair piled atop their heads.

All of them stretching toward a version of themselves that’s more flexible, more toned, more perfectly contained. I feel like I’d snap in half before I ever fit in.

The memories are fuzzy, but I know I liked things fast and hard.

The simple satisfaction of a heart pounding out of control, cement dust and sweat in my nostrils, legs burning like they're dipped in acid.

I can’t overlay the memory of a spin class or a 10K mud run with the pastel serenity of Pilates. The contrast is almost nauseating.

But maybe that’s the point, for them—make me soft, make me slow, file off my edges, tuck me into the neat little box that says “ marriage material.”

Maybe that’s why the idea of Pilates feels so much like defeat.

I set my fork down—gently, but with enough force to make the tines ring sharply against the edge of my plate. I look up, meet both their eyes, and let the iron in my voice show.

"I don't really look like a 'Pilates' kind of girl," I point out, gesturing vaguely at myself.

"Let alone someone who fits that whole graceful, zen aesthetic they're going for.

I'm more into cardio—like Hyrox training and running.

You know, the kind of stuff that makes sure you're actually fit for anything life throws at you. "

My mother's expression shifts into something that might charitably be called concerned, but looks more like barely concealed horror.

"Darling, you can certainly acquire the same athletic build through Pilates, though it's not particularly attractive when a woman becomes too muscular or... intense about fitness. Alphas prefer a more refined approach to physical wellness."

I sigh heavily and set down my fork with more force than strictly necessary.

"Is this conversation really necessary during dinner? We're supposed to be having a nice family meal, not discussing my fitness routine like it's a corporate board meeting."

My father apparently decides this is the perfect moment to change the subject to something even more uncomfortable.

"Actually, speaking of social expectations, a pack reached out to me recently expressing interest in courting you."

I immediately choke on the sip of water I'd just taken, coughing and sputtering as the liquid goes down the wrong pipe.

"What?" I manage to gasp out once I can breathe again. "Can you clarify what you mean by 'interest,' because I'm definitely not interested in dating or courting anyone right now."

My mother leans forward slightly, her expression taking on that particular look of maternal concern mixed with social pragmatism.

"Sweetheart, you're getting older, and you really do need to start thinking about finding a suitable pack. It's not something you can put off indefinitely."

"Your mother's absolutely right," my father adds, his tone suggesting this is a business discussion rather than a conversation about my personal life.

"Especially now, when it's so crucial to build a solid foundation and establish proper social connections in this world.

The right pack alliance could provide security and stability that?—"

"Let me guess," I interrupt, my irritation finally boiling over into actual anger. "These packs are suddenly interested now because they're desperate to get an Omega ever since that announcement this morning that every Formula One team needs an Omega partner. Right?"

Both my parents go completely quiet, their expressions shifting from merely serious to something approaching alarmed. The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable, broken only by the soft clink of silverware against china.

"See?" I continue, warming to my theme now that I've clearly hit a nerve.

"If you think this is going to stop with just racing, you're kidding yourselves.

This move is just the beginning—the perfect test case in a field that's been completely male-dominated.

Once it happens and proves successful, it's going to filter out to every other industry.

It's only a matter of time before Omega inclusion becomes mandatory across the board. "

My father's jaw tightens visibly.

"You shouldn't be watching that nonsense on television. It's not appropriate entertainment for someone in your condition."

I laugh, but there's no humor in it.

"Obviously someone around here likes it, or we wouldn't be having this conversation about suddenly interested packs."

My mother mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, "And where did that interest get our daughter?"

The words hit me like a slap, and I feel my anger drain away as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a hollow ache in my chest that I can't quite identify.

There's clearly more to this story—more to my accident, more to my past involvement with racing, more to why my parents seem so terrified of me engaging with anything related to motorsports.

But I know from experience that pushing for answers right now will only result in more carefully constructed non-responses and protective deflection.

I'm tired of fighting battles I can't win with incomplete information.

"You know what?" I say quietly, setting my napkin beside my plate and pushing back from the table. "My head is starting to hurt, so I think I'm going to take some medication and head home."

My mother immediately perks up with concern.

"Oh, sweetheart, if your head is bothering you, why don't you stay the night? You shouldn't be driving when you're not feeling well."

My father nods in agreement.

"Your mother's right. We have your old room ready, and it would be much safer for you to rest here rather than making that drive."

I pause, considering their offer. Part of me wants to retreat to my old bedroom and pretend I'm still the girl who lived here before everything went wrong.

But another part of me— the part that's been growing stronger since this morning's revelations —knows that staying here means more conversations like this one, more careful management of information I supposedly can't handle.

"I'll think about the offer," I say diplomatically, rising from my chair and smoothing down my dress. "Let me see how I feel after I take something for the headache."

I make my way toward the dining room door, my heels clicking against the polished hardwood floors with each step.

The sound echoes through the cavernous space, making me hyperaware of how alone I feel even surrounded by family and household staff.

One of the maids—a young woman I don't remember but who clearly knows me—hurries ahead to open the heavy wooden door for me. But as the door swings open, I find myself face-to-face with a man standing on the other side, his hand raised as if he was seconds away from knocking.

We share a look of mutual surprise, his dark eyes widening slightly as he takes in my appearance.

There's something immediately familiar about him, though I can't place exactly where I might know him from. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that suggests he's used to commanding attention and respect.

His hair is dark and slightly tousled, like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing a suit that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent.

But it's his scent that really catches my attention—something clean and mechanical, like high-quality motor oil mixed with expensive cologne. It's appealing in a way that makes my Omega instincts sit up and take notice, even though my conscious mind is still trying to figure out who he is.

From behind me, I hear my father's voice, and there's a note of surprise mixed with something that might be concern.

"Caspian?"

The name hits like a puzzle piece clicking into place, though I still can't access the full picture.

Caspian.

I know that name, know it's important somehow, but the specific memories remain frustratingly out of reach.

The man— Caspian —is staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin heat up despite the formal setting.

There's recognition in his gaze, along with something that looks like relief mixed with apprehension.

Like he's been looking for me and finally found me, but isn't sure what kind of reception he's going to get.

"Auren," he says quietly, and the way he says my name sends shivers down my spine.

There's familiarity there, intimacy even, like he's said it a thousand times before in contexts I can't remember.

I find myself studying his face, looking for clues about our connection.

He's undeniably attractive, with strong features and the kind of confidence that comes from success and achievement. But there's also something almost vulnerable in the way he's looking at me, like he's afraid I might disappear if he blinks.

"Do I... do we know each other?" I ask, hating how uncertain I sound but needing to understand the dynamic I've apparently walked into.

Something flickers across his expression— pain, maybe, or disappointment —before it's carefully hidden behind a polite mask.

"We do," he confirms, his voice carefully neutral. "We've known each other for quite some time."

From behind me, I can hear my parents moving, probably approaching to see what's happening at their front door.

The last thing I want is to have this conversation— whatever it's going to be —in front of them, especially given how tense dinner has already been.

But I can't shake the feeling that Caspian's appearance here isn't coincidental.

Not after the morning's racing announcement, not after the mysterious ticket I found in my mail, not after all the carefully constructed conversations about my future and my past.

Something tells me that this man standing in my parents' doorway might have answers to questions I'm not even sure I know how to ask yet.

And despite my uncertainty about who he is or what he wants, I find myself wanting to find out.