Mesmerised by the Alpha

The road stretched ahead in silence, and I clung to it—anything to keep my thoughts from drifting back to the wreckage I was trying to forget. Six months. To the day. That was when I lost my mother. It started with little things—aches, stiffness, fatigue. Nothing alarming at first. “Don’t worry, Mum,” I’d told her, trying to sound sure. “You’ve just been working too hard. You’ll be okay.” For two years, I juggled two jobs, scraped together rent, and made every hospital appointment I could. Always hoping. Always convincing myself she’d turn a corner. That things would get better. That I wouldn't lose the only person I had left. But hope, like everything else, eventually runs out. Lung cancer. Stage four. The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My vision swam. The sterile white walls of the doctor’s office seemed to close in, and suddenly, the air felt too thick to breathe. I blinked, trying to ground myself, but all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears—a deafening wave crashing through my skull. My fingers clenched the fabric of my jeans, nails biting into the denim, heart thundering like it was trying to escape my chest. “No… Doctor, that can’t be right!” I managed to choke out. My voice cracked, thin and desperate. “My mum doesn’t even have any symptoms! She’s just tired, that’s all!” He folded his hands, his expression soft but unyielding. The kind of look you give someone when you’ve already delivered bad news too many times. “I understand your shock, Miss Green,” he said gently, every word careful, deliberate. "But the scans and blood work are clear. The cancer has spread. While we can’t cure it, palliative care can help manage her symptoms—and give her more time.” His voice blurred around the edges, like sound underwater. I barely heard him. I turned slowly to look at Mum, searching her face for something—panic, disbelief, even anger. But all I saw was a flicker of something deeper. Surrender. Her shoulders slumped as if the weight of the words had crushed what little strength she had left. She stood stiffly, almost robotically, eyes fixed on the floor. “I can’t deal with this,” she mumbled, barely audible. “I don’t want to know. Speak to my daughter. She’ll handle everything.” And just like that, she left. The door clicked softly behind her. That sound—gentle, final—echoed louder in my chest than anything else in the room. I sat frozen, staring at the empty space she’d left behind, a chasm of silence yawning between me and the doctor. My mouth opened, then closed. I had no questions. Just numbness. From then on, everything moved fast, too fast—treatment plans, hospital schedules, drug regimens I couldn’t pronounce. Chemo one week. Immunotherapy the next. Monthly scans that brought more dread than hope. A carousel of medical terms and hollow reassurances. For two years, I watched her body shrink under starched white sheets. Watched the light fade from her eyes, a little more each day. And then one day, she just… stopped fighting. After the funeral, I unraveled. Sleep became a stranger. Meals felt pointless. I worked nonstop just to afford the burial—because even in death, the bills kept coming. No one offered to help. Family had their own lives, their own excuses. It was all on me. I drifted through the days in a haze, planning details I could barely afford. Peach roses for the service—her favourite. I couldn’t afford a caterer, so I made the food myself. Every decision, every burden, landed squarely on my shoulders. The funeral itself was a blur. All I remember is the pounding in my head from crying too hard and too long. After that? Silence. No calls. No texts. As if she’d never existed—and neither had I. I was done. With everything. With everyone. What was I working myself to death for? Rent? A miserable routine? There had to be more to life than this. That’s when it hit me. I didn’t have to live this way. If I wanted change, I had to create it. So there I was, 3 a.m., sitting in front of my laptop with a bottle of wine and nothing to lose. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for—just something that wasn’t this. And then I saw it. TIRED OF THE RAT RACE? WANT PEACE, QUIET, AND A FRESH START? St. Amstein Hotel is seeking applicants to join a skeleton crew during a full renovation. We’re hiring 5 new members to support our existing team of 10. Roles include admin, maintenance, gardening—and yes, we have a pool! Food, accommodation, and competitive pay included. Escape the city. Embrace the calm. Call us now! And that was it. I applied, and somehow—miraculously—I got the job. I said yes without hesitation. Food and housing included. Great salary. A chance to breathe again. My luck, for once, was finally turning. So here I am, five hours into the drive, only twenty minutes to go. The road winds through a mountain-lined valley with towering pine trees, the sunlight flickering through the branches and dancing across my windscreen. My heart flutters with cautious excitement. If this goes well, it could even turn into something permanent. And honestly, that wouldn’t be so bad. Not here. Not surrounded by all this beauty. As I pull up, I stare in awe at the hotel. It’s massive—stone grey and weathered with age, its facade wrapped in thick ivy that curled like veins across the ancient walls. The building loomed against the dusky sky, its steep, slate roof jutting upward like jagged peaks. Turrets flanked each side, their narrow windows like watchful eyes in the stone. The place had a haunting beauty to it—elegant, but with an air of mystery that sent a ripple down my spine. In front of me, towering gothic gates stood like silent sentinels, their wrought-iron curves twisting into ornate patterns, topped with pointed tips that looked more decorative than welcoming. They looked as though they hadn’t opened in years, and yet, somehow, they hummed with anticipation. It looked like something out of a forgotten fairytale—or maybe a ghost story. And I was stepping right into it. I ease my car up to the intercom and press the button. “Hello, can I help you?” a voice crackles through the speaker. “Yes,” I say, smiling despite my anxiety. “Jasmine Green. I’m here to start as the new receptionist.” The gates creak open with a slow, dramatic screech. I glance in the rearview as they close behind me. This is it. No turning back. A new chapter. A new life.