Page 55 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

MATERNAL REVELATIONS

~ A UREN~

"What are you doing here?" The words come out sharper than I intended, but finding my mother hiding in a bathroom stall while I'm having an emotional breakdown isn't exactly how I pictured our reunion going.

I glance toward the washroom door, suddenly paranoid about who else might walk in and witness whatever confrontation is about to happen. "Someone could come in."

My mother stands there, perfectly composed despite having just been crouched in a bathroom stall for god knows how long, and I can't help but take in her appearance with a mixture of awe and irritation.

The cream Chanel suit makes her look like she stepped out of a boardroom where she just hostile-takeovered someone's entire company.

Her makeup is flawless—not a single smudge despite the bathroom's humidity.

Even her posture screams authority, spine straight and shoulders back in a way that makes her seem taller than her five-foot-six frame.

"Why do you look like that?" I add, gesturing vaguely at her entire existence.

She gives me a look—that particular expression that only mothers can achieve where one raised eyebrow conveys an entire lecture about stating the obvious.

I groan, running a hand through my still-damp hair.

"Okay, fine. I look like you. But you look like a more badass version of me right now and I'm not sure if I like that."

She rolls her eyes— a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache —and moves toward the washroom door with purposeful strides. Her heels click against the marble floor with the precision of a metronome, each step calculated and deliberate.

She opens the door just enough to slap a "CLOSED FOR CLEANING" sign on the outside, the laminated yellow placard appearing from her purse like she carries bathroom closure equipment as part of her daily essentials.

Then she closes the door and pulls out a device that looks like a high-tech doorstop, sliding it under the gap with practiced ease.

The mechanism expands with a soft whir, effectively sealing us in.

I whistle low, genuinely impressed despite myself. "Wow, Mom. I knew you were a secret agent."

She rolls her eyes again, but there's the faintest hint of amusement in the gesture. "You wish. But I don't want to be interrupted because we have max ten minutes before your lovely possessive Alpha thinks you've been kidnapped or having a whole ass breakdown."

I smirk at her use of profanity—my proper mother who usually acts like curse words are beneath her tax bracket. "Six minutes, actually. He's probably already?—"

"Three," she corrects, checking her Cartier watch with the efficiency of someone who's calculated every second of this interaction. "Since you just spent another three talking and having a life crisis in a toilet stall."

I pout, the expression automatic and probably making me look about twelve years old.

The words come out as barely a whisper: "Are you mad?"

She huffs, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. "Of course I'm furious."

I flinch, the words hitting like physical blows.

My shoulders hunch automatically, that childhood instinct to make myself smaller in the face of parental disappointment.

But then she groans, pinching the bridge of her nose in a gesture I've apparently inherited, and takes several deep breaths that sound like she's trying to center herself before she commits matricide.

"I'm totally here against your father's wishes, obviously," she says, and the admission surprises me enough that I straighten slightly. "He's having a hissy fit and wants to take you out of the will."

I actually smirk at that, the idea of being disinherited somehow less terrifying than I thought it would be.

Maybe because I've already been living without their approval for days now and the world hasn't ended.

Or maybe because the idea of being free from their expectations—even if it means being free from their money—has its own appeal.

My mother arches an eyebrow at my reaction, waiting for an explanation.

"I mean," I say, trying to organize my thoughts, "it's an honor to have inheritance and all, but do you think I was going to rely on waiting for my parents to die to be rich in life?"

That makes her smirk, the expression transforming her face from disapproving parent to something more familiar.

"You wouldn't be a Vale if you did such foolishness. Though your reaction comes from me more than your father."

I smile at that small acknowledgment of similarity, but it drops as the weight of everything crashes back down. "I'm not living, Mom." The words come out raw, desperate.

"The track is where I belong. Not in Pilates classes, or having tea with a bunch of elite fake Omegas who'd rather spend hours talking about who has the better designer Hermès bag their Alphas bought them, or how many babies they're going to pop out, or which private schools they're going to attend. "

I can see her processing my words, that analytical mind that built a business empire alongside my father working through the implications.

"I get why you're protecting me," I continue, needing her to understand. "You don't want the accident to repeat itself. But a fake life trying to protect this body while my heart is dying on the inside... it ain't it."

I sigh, gathering courage before looking directly into her eyes—those mirrors of my own that have seen so much more life than mine.

"Racing again... it was frightening." The admission costs me something, but I push through. "I shook with fear but also adrenaline. But I felt alive. Rejuvenated. Free. If that means risking doing it all over again, to be in that vehicle to experience that high, I'll take the risk."

The silence that follows is heavy, pressing against my skin like humidity before a storm.

My mother's face is unreadable, that perfect mask she's worn to countless board meetings and social events giving nothing away.

I fill the silence with nervous energy, words tumbling out before I can stop them.

"If you wish to take me out of the inheritance, I'll accept that. And I guess if... if you don't want me to rely on you or speak to me again, I can also accept that."

My voice cracks on the next words, the child in me who still desperately wants her parents' approval breaking through.

"Can I at least get a hug before I'm cut off?"

Something in her expression cracks, and I catch the glassy sheen in her eyes before she blinks it away. She sighs—deep and heavy like she's releasing years of carefully held control—and then her arms are around me, pulling me into a hug that smells like Chanel No. 5 and home.

"I'm not disowning you," she says against my hair, and I have to bite my lip to keep from sobbing.

She pulls back, gripping my shoulders with manicured hands that have signed million-dollar deals and held me through childhood nightmares with equal intensity.

Her voice drops to a whisper: "If this is what's going to bring you joy again.

.. so be it. We can advise you and protect you, but your happiness is yours to claim.

And if that's on the track... so be it."

The relief that floods through me is almost painful, but questions still burn in my throat.

"Why didn't you strive for your dreams if you raced? Why did you stop?"

Her smile is sad, tinged with something I can't quite identify.

"Did you fall out of love with the sport?" I ask, trying to understand how someone could walk away from something that clearly meant everything.

She laughs, but it's not a happy sound. A single tear escapes, tracking down her cheek and probably ruining foundation that costs more than most people's grocery bills.

"Racing was my world... until it couldn't be anymore."

She looks back into my eyes with an intensity that makes me want to look away, but I hold her gaze. Then she takes one of my hands and places it on her stomach, the gesture so unexpected I don't immediately understand.

"Because a whole new world was being built right here."

The realization hits, my eyes widening as the pieces click into place.

"You got... pregnant."

She nods slowly, that sad smile still playing at her lips.

"In Vegas, ironically. The city of sin, and clearly baby-making. But racing and pregnancy don't go hand in hand, Auren, so I had to make a choice. To strive for my dream... or to build a new one."

The weight of that sacrifice— giving up everything she'd worked for because of me —sits heavy in my chest.

"If that's the case... why are you against me racing?"

Her expression hardens slightly, not with anger but with the kind of protective fierceness that only mothers can achieve.

"Because racing is merciless to women, my dear. And now an Omega? One who should be fragile, submissive, humble to all the men and testosterone in the room that want her in the kitchen and not racing against them? They're merciless."

She pauses, seeming to gather her thoughts.

"And I never wished for my child to go through the irony of that. Pilates... Ballet... every activity has its share of brutes, but racing... the thrill is as addicting as it is deadly, but it can ruin you if you're not careful. And that's what I fear for my girl."

Then her expression softens again, and she pulls me into another hug. "But if this is the path you wish, I will do what a Vale can to protect you."

I fight tears as I hug her back, my voice thick with emotion.

"Thank you, Mom."

She pulls back, all business now despite the emotional moment we just shared.

"You'll promise me three things."

I nod, knowing that whatever she asks is going to be non-negotiable.

"One. You'll be given a personal assistant. They'll be your publicist, take charge of your socials so you don't need to be around that toxic stuff, and will be your bodyguard."

I whistle.

"Three in one?"

She ignores my interruption with practiced ease.

"Two. You'll continue doing medical examinations and you will make sure you maintain fit.

I know you have your own regimen, but racing is as physical as it is mental and you need to be balanced and in the right mind.

If you need medication for the PTSD or any other symptoms, it will be provided to you, no questions asked.

We'll ensure our medical professionals are at every race, including a female Omega examiner. Deal?"

"Deal," I reply, knowing this is actually reasonable given everything.

"Three." She pauses for effect. "Birth control."

I pout immediately, the expression automatic.

"I'll gain weight though."

She gives me a look that could freeze hell.

"Okay, okay," I concede quickly. "No baby-making. Got it."

"Until you're ready to expand with your pack," she adds, then raises an eyebrow. "Which I'm assuming is Wolfe's?"

I can't help but smile at that, warmth flooding through me at the thought of Lachlan and the complicated dynamics we're navigating.

"We're trying it out."

My phone rings then, Lachlan's ringtone cutting through the moment.

My mother doesn't miss a beat.

"Tell him you're at the elevators."

I arch an eyebrow at the seemingly random instruction but answer the call. "Hey, I'm at the elevators."

"Why?" Lachlan's voice is confused but not suspicious.

I think quickly, grateful for my mother's quick thinking. "The washroom is out of order so I had to use the other one that's near the entrance."

"Okay, I'm coming." The line goes dead, and I look at my mother with renewed panic.

"How am I going to get to the elevators? He's literally on his way there right now and I'm?—"

She's already moving, walking to the far end of the washroom where I hadn't even noticed another door, painted to blend seamlessly with the marble walls.

She knocks twice— a specific pattern that speaks of pre-arrangement —and the door opens to reveal a security guard I don't recognize.

Beyond him is a service corridor that clearly leads toward the main entrance, a path I had no idea existed.

I whistle again, genuinely impressed by the level of preparation this required.

"I forgot about how mysteriously scary we are."

"The Vale family has resources," she says simply, but there's pride in her voice. "Use them wisely."

We walk quickly through the corridor, my heels clicking against the concrete floor so different from the marble luxury of the public spaces.

The guard leads us through a series of turns that would be impossible to remember, finally emerging through another hidden door near the elevator banks.

"I'll be watching your rise," my mother declares, and the words carry weight—promise and threat and love all wrapped together.

I give her one last squeeze, breathing in her familiar scent and trying to memorize this moment when everything shifted between us.

When she chose my happiness over her fears.

When she chose to support me despite the risks.

"I love you," I whisper against her shoulder. "Thank you for everything."