Chapter 19 CHAPTER 19
I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the woman standing in my doorway her face pale, her smile too soft, her voice calm in a way that made it worse. Ayla, I am your mother. The sentence kept replaying like someone whispering directly into my ear. I tried to convince myself I had imagined it, that my mind was simply exhausted, but the echo of her voice followed me the second I woke up.
By the time morning came, I felt shaky. My hands trembled when I brushed my hair, when I filled a glass of water, when I locked the front door behind me. I needed answers, and there was only one place to get them. My real mother the only woman I had ever called “Mom” was at our store in town today. If anyone could explain what the hell happened, it was her.
Driving felt impossible. My chest was tight as I pulled onto the main road, and I had to grip the steering wheel harder than usual just to steady myself. Traffic was backed up so badly it looked like a metal river stretching into the horizon. I tapped my fingers anxiously on the wheel, wishing the cars would move faster. Each minute I sat there, the panic inside me grew like it had its own heartbeat.
I rolled down the window and tried to breathe. Air rushed in, warm and heavy, doing nothing to calm me. The woman’s face flashed in my mind the sharp cheekbones, the steady eyes, the certainty in her voice. She had looked at me like she knew me. Like she had every right to show up in my house.
My stomach twisted as I stared at the line of cars that still refused to move. I hated being stuck. I hated waiting. Part of me wanted to ditch the car and run the rest of the way. My mind kept spiraling through possibilities maybe it was a prank, maybe it was someone who needed help, maybe it was a shapeshifter, maybe it was someone unhinged. But the possibility that scared me the most was the quietest one. The one I refused to even fully think.
What if she wasn’t lying?
I gripped the wheel harder, shaking my head. No. That wasn’t possible. My mother raised me. She gave me baths when I was little, braided my hair before school, taught me how to cook, scolded me when I lied, hugged me when I cried. She wasn’t perfect, but she was mine. There was no version of the world where I had another mother hidden somewhere, walking around claiming me like I was a secret she was ready to reclaim.
Traffic finally started moving. I exhaled shakily and stepped on the gas, my heart racing as the road opened. I tried not to speed, but the need to know the truth kept pressing against my ribs. I turned onto Main Street and parked right in front of our store, barely remembering to turn off the engine before jumping out.
When I walked through the glass doors, the familiar scent of spices and cleaning detergent surrounded me, but it didn’t bring the comfort it usually did. The aisles felt too narrow, the lights too bright. My mother stood behind the counter, arranging baked goods into a display. She didn’t look up until I was only a few steps away.
“Ayla?” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here this early?”
My throat tightened at the sound of her voice. I swallowed hard. “We need to talk.”
She straightened, wiping her hands on a cloth. “About what?”
The fact that she didn’t already know made my stomach twist again. I took a breath, trying to steady myself. “A woman came to the house last night.”
Her eyebrows pulled together. “What woman?”
“She… said her name. And she said she was my mother.”
The cloth slipped from her fingers and fell to the counter. For a moment, she just stared at me, her face draining of color. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I felt my pulse hammering against my neck.
“Mom?” I said quietly. “Say something.”
She blinked rapidly, her mouth opening and closing as if she couldn’t decide whether to lie or tell the truth. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the cloth again, folding it even though it didn’t need folding.
“Where exactly did you see her?” she asked.
“In the house,” I said. “She knocked. I opened the door, and she stood there and said she was my mother.”
My mother swallowed, her eyes flicking away. “What did she look like?”
“Why does that matter?” I asked, feeling frustration spark. “Why aren’t you shocked? Why aren’t you telling me she’s lying? Why aren’t you saying something to calm me down?”
She looked at me then—really looked at me—and something unspoken moved behind her eyes. Fear. Or guilt. Or both. “Ayla,” she said softly, “some people like to pretend things that aren’t true. Maybe she was confused.”
“She wasn’t confused,” I said firmly. “She knew my name. She knew who I was. And she said it with certainty.”
My mother’s breath hitched. She turned away and began rearranging the same tray of muffins she had already fixed. It was her avoidance habit, the same one she used when she didn’t want to discuss something.
“Can you please stop touching things and just talk to me?” I said, my voice cracking.
She stilled.
For a long moment, she didn’t move, didn’t look at me, didn’t breathe in a way I could hear. I stepped closer, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear anything else.
“Mom,” I whispered. “Who was she?”
Finally, she turned around. Her eyes were glossy, as if she were fighting tears she didn’t want me to see. “Ayla… there are things you don’t understand.”
“I’m trying to understand,” I said, emotion rising in my chest. “But I need you to tell me the truth.”
She shook her head, her lips pressing tightly together. “Some truths are dangerous.”
“More dangerous than not knowing?” I asked. “More dangerous than someone coming into my home claiming to have raised me? Mom, just tell me. Please.”
Her chin trembled. “I raised you.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But did she? Did someone else? Was I adopted? Was there something you didn’t tell me? Am I not who I think I am?”
The questions spilled out, messy and desperate, and once they were in the air, I couldn’t take them back.
My mother stepped around the counter and pulled me into a tight hug. It caught me off guard, but I didn’t move. She held me with a kind of desperation I hadn’t felt from her since I was a child. When she finally released me, she cupped my face with trembling hands.
“You are my daughter,” she said fiercely. “That is the truth. I raised you. I protected you. I love you.”
“I know,” I said, my voice shaking. “But that’s not answering anything.”
She stepped back, exhaling shakily. “There are things from before you were born. Things we promised never to speak of. Things your father and I buried because we thought it was the only way to keep you safe.”
My breath caught. “Safe from what?” She hesitated. “From the past.”
“What past?” I asked. “Whose past? Yours? Dad’s? Mine?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for the counter like she needed support just to stay standing. “Ayla, you should go home.”
“What?” I blinked. “No. I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s starting again.”
I felt cold all over. “What is starting again?” But she didn’t answer. She only looked at me with that fearful, helpless expression that twisted my stomach into knots. For a moment, I felt like a child again, begging for explanations she never gave.
“Is she dangerous?” I asked. My mother pressed her lips together, then nodded barely, just enough that I saw it.
I felt my lungs tighten. “Does she want something from me?”
“She wants you,” my mother whispered. The words hit me so hard that I staggered a step back. “Why? Who is she?” My mother didn’t answer. She only said, “You need to stay close to Branden.” My heart dropped. “What does Branden have to do with this?”
“He’s the Alpha,” she said. “He’s the only one who can protect you now.”
A chill crawled down my spine. “Protect me from who?”
Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t allow to fall. “From your real mother.” Everything inside me froze. I didn’t breath, I couldn't move my muscles. I just stared at her as my entire world cracked right beneath my feet.
“My real mother?” I whispered.
She shook her head slowly, as if regretting everything she had just admitted. “Ayla, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We should have told you. But she wasn’t supposed to find you.”
I felt the room tilt, my vision blurring at the edges. “Why? Why wasn’t she supposed to?”
“Because,” my mother whispered, her voice breaking, “she gave you up for a reason. And now she wants you back.”
My knees weakened. I leaned against the counter, struggling to keep myself from sliding to the floor. My mother reached for me, but I stepped away.
“Don’t touch me,” I whispered. “Don't fucking touch me," I hissed under my breath.
“Ayla—”
“You hid this from me. All my life.”
She looked shattered. “We did what we had to do.”
I wiped my eyes roughly. “No. You did what you wanted to do.”
I turned away, unable to look at her anymore. My chest ached so badly it felt bruised. Everything I thought I knew my childhood, my family, my identity suddenly felt unstable. Like it had all been built over a truth so dark it was never meant to surface. And it all made sense, the woman who raised has never loved me, the decision for Sierra to marry Callen was probably hers because I am not her daughter.
I walked out of the store before she could say another word, and as the glass door closed behind me, one thought repeated louder than the rest.