Page 118 of Knot So Fast
The stall door next to mine—the one I was certain was empty—swings open with deliberate slowness.
And there she is.
My mother.
She looks exactly as she always does—immaculate in a way that seems effortless but probably took a team of professionals to achieve. Her dark hair is pulled back in an elegant chignon that wouldn't dare have a strand out of place. Her suit is cream-colored Chanel, tailored to perfection, the kind of outfit that costs more than most people's cars but somehow looks understated on her.
But it's her eyes that really get me. The same unusual color as mine—that purple-blue that shifts depending on the light—but right now they're hard as amethyst, beautiful and cold and completely unreadable.
She's been here the whole time. Sitting in the stall next to mine, listening to me fall apart, hearing every word of my conversation with Lachlan, witnessing my complete emotional breakdown over public hatred and private fears.
The mother who insisted on Pilates and suitable Alphas.
The mother who apparently erased my entire racing history from the internet.
The mother who's been trying to call me 287 times.
My mom.
MATERNAL REVELATIONS
~AUREN~
"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.
