Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

Chapter 41: Kelly Valor

Walking a few steps ahead of me, the woman I now knew as Dominic’s mother guided me down the hallway. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t hover. Her presence was calm, steady—like she understood that my body was here, but my mind was still catching up.

“This is your room, sweetheart,” she said gently.

The moment I stepped inside, something twisted in my chest.

It felt like I had lived here.

Not happily.

The air carried echoes—heavy ones. Lingering sadness. Sleepless nights. Despair that clung to the walls like it had soaked into them. The feeling was so strong it made my stomach turn.

And yet… it felt wrong to feel that way.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Dominic wasn’t the source of this darkness. He was trying—trying so hard it hurt to look at him. The care in his voice, the way his hands shook when he held me, the way he watched me like I might disappear again if he blinked.

Whatever I had been before—whoever I had been with Mario—felt wrong in comparison.

I should have been better for Dominic.

Kinder. Braver. Stronger.

Better than I ever was with Mario.

So why couldn’t I remember?

Left alone, I focused on changing, hoping it would ground me. I pulled on a simple blue shirt with a small logo and a pair of leggings folded neatly in the dresser. The clothes fit me like they were mine—soft, familiar—and as I dressed, something loosened in my chest.

I felt lighter.

Like I could breathe again.

Turning around, I noticed a phone resting on the nightstand. Beside it, on a small desk near the window, sat a laptop.

Without thinking, I picked up the phone.

There wasn’t much on it—no recent messages, no chaos—but there were pictures.

The same pictures.

The ones I had seen in the wedding room.

Me smiling. Me laughing. Me wrapped in arms that weren’t Mario’s.

My hands started to shake.

Then I opened the laptop.

And that’s when the truth hit me.

Folders. Documents. Notes. Photos. Drafts. Emails. Pieces of a life stitched together by pain, fear, resilience, and survival.

The woman staring back at me from the screen was me.

And she wasn’t okay.

Not even close.

Whatever had been taken from me wasn’t just memory.

It was proof that I had been breaking long before I ever forgot.

She had shorter hair.

A pixie cut that framed her face sharply, decisively—like a woman who didn’t ask permission to exist. Her body was slimmer, lighter, almost fragile in comparison to the one I inhabited now. There was strength there, but it was quiet. Earned.

And as I stared at her—at myself—I felt it.

She was missing something.

Just like I am right now.

The realization settled deep in my chest, heavy and hollow, as if something vital had been carved out of me and replaced with fog. I glanced at the time and froze.

Medication.

I was supposed to take it.

The thought came automatically, drilled into me so deeply it felt like instinct. I shut everything down, the laptop, the phone, the room going silent again—and that’s when doubt finally spoke louder than fear.

Do I really need it?

The question scared me more than forgetting ever had.

I couldn’t remember why I was medicated. Only that Mario never allowed me to know. Never explained. Never showed me labels or names or reasons.

“You need it,” he would say.

That’s all.

Just need—no context, no choice.

Standing here, in my old home with Dominic’s things around me, with warmth instead of pressure in the air, I could feel it clearly now.

That wasn’t care.

That wasn’t protection.

That was control.

A cold realization snapped into place, sharp and undeniable, and with it came something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Anger.

Pure. Burning. Righteous.

My hands curled into fists as Mario’s name echoed in my head, no longer wrapped in softness or excuses.

You bastard.

Whatever he had taken from me—my body, my memories, my autonomy—I was finally starting to see the shape of it.

And I wasn’t going to swallow it quietly anymore.

Walking down the stairs felt like stepping into a room that already knew me.

Every conversation softened. Every movement slowed. Eyes lifted in quiet awareness, not curiosity—recognition. As if they were waiting to see me, not just a body walking through the space.

And then I saw Dominic.

The second his eyes met mine, something inside my chest steadied, and the words spilled out before fear could stop them.

“What was I medicated for?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it firm. “Mario said I needed medications, but I don’t know why. He never told me.”

The warmth in Dominic’s expression cracked.

Not toward me—never toward me—but toward the memory of what had been done. His jaw tightened, irritation flaring sharp and protective, like a storm gathering over frozen ground.

Before he could answer, the front door opened.

The sound alone startled me.

I turned just in time to see her walk in.

Allessa.

The nurse.

My breath caught.

She had always been gentle with me. Always careful. Always lingering a moment longer when Mario wasn’t looking, adjusting blankets, lowering her voice, shielding me in small ways that felt insignificant then—but now screamed meaning.

Why was she here?

Dominic spoke before I could ask, his voice calm but deliberate, anchoring me.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, looking directly at her. “I’ve resigned from Sir Ariott’s services. I don’t work for him anymore. And I thought you deserved to hear the truth—from someone who was there.”

Allessa nodded and took a seat on the sofa, her movements careful, respectful. The man who had caught me when I fell from Dominic’s back joined her, sitting close enough that their hands brushed.

They weren’t just coworkers.

They were together.

Something about that—about truth existing openly in this house—made my chest ache in a good way.

Dominic’s arm slid around my hip, grounding, warm, unmistakably present. I didn’t hesitate. My arms wrapped around him naturally, like muscle memory I hadn’t earned back yet but somehow still owned.

I looked up at him, feeling his steady breathing, his solid presence.

I didn’t know why it felt right to stand like this.

I didn’t know how my body remembered him when my mind still struggled.

But it did.

And for the first time since waking up in that cold, gilded hospital room, I didn’t feel like I was being handled.

I felt held.

Dominic guided me toward the sofa, his hand never leaving mine. His mother followed, along with the others, until we were all seated together in a loose circle that felt intentional—protective.

All but one.

The woman with the two children lingered near the doorway. She bent to whisper something to the man beside her, kissed the top of one child’s head, and then quietly let herself out. The door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed through the house, sealing us in.

Not trapped.

Contained.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was patient.

Dominic’s mother turned toward me then, her expression gentle, almost reverent, as if she understood how fragile this moment was.

“Before we start,” she said softly, “I want to help you remember our names. There’s no rush. No pressure.”

Her voice reminded me of warm kitchens, of winter mornings where the snow outside forced people to stay close inside.

“My name is Kelly,” she continued, offering a small smile. “But I asked you to call me Mom.”

Something twisted in my chest—not pain, not fear—just a quiet ache I didn’t have words for.

She gestured to the others one by one. “This is Rory. And you already know Allessa.” She paused there, letting me breathe. “And this is her fiancé, Shawn.”

I nodded, slowly, respectfully, committing the names to memory even though they floated without context. Faces without histories. Threads without knots.

Allessa was the only one who didn’t feel unfamiliar. Seeing her again sparked something solid, something real, like a memory refusing to be erased.

I glanced at Dominic, instinctively, and he gave me the smallest nod—as if to say you’re doing fine. As if to remind me I wasn’t alone in piecing myself back together.

And for the first time, sitting there surrounded by strangers who treated me like I belonged, I believed that might actually be true.