Alpha's Regret After the Divorce by Christina novel Chapter 99

Chapter 99

Kira’s Perspective

I found myself observing my own existence from a distance, as if I were an outsider watching a film unfold. It was a surreal sensation—detached and strange—to witness my life’s moments laid out before me like scenes on a screen. There was little Kira, just eight years old, perched by the window with hopeful eyes, waiting for a mother who never returned. Then teenage Kira, immersing herself in thick medical textbooks, driven by a fierce need to prove her worth through accomplishments. And finally, adult Kira, standing tall in a pristine white coat, at last feeling a sense of belonging and purpose.

Then Rocco entered the frame. I saw him step into my life, our first encounter at a bustling hospital fundraiser where his gaze locked onto mine across the crowded room. The early days of our courtship, the subtle marks of possession, the whispered promises of forever. I wanted to shout at that hopeful version of myself, to warn her not to trust him, to shield her from the heartbreak I knew was coming. But dream-Kira remained silent, oblivious to the danger lurking beneath the surface.

The scene shifted again, bringing me to our shared home, where Rocco’s warmth began to fade, replaced by a coldness that seeped into the walls. I noticed the way he recoiled whenever I reached out to touch him, a subtle flinch that spoke volumes. Then Kim appeared—radiant, confident in ways I never was. I watched as Rocco’s expression softened when he looked at her, the tenderness returning to his eyes, the gentle smile I once believed was mine alone now reserved for someone else.

“I choose her,” dream-Rocco said without even glancing at me, taking Kim’s hand firmly. “I’ve always chosen her.”

I jolted awake with a sharp gasp, my heart pounding wildly against my ribs. The ceiling above was unfamiliar, the bed strange beneath me. The air was filled with a scent—was it lavender? No, something earthier, a blend of sage and cedar that felt grounding. I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through my body, forcing me to freeze.

“Take it easy,” a calm voice advised nearby. “You’ve got three broken ribs and a sprained ankle. Not to mention enough bruises to win a street fight championship.”

I turned my head slowly, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. Andy Watson sat in a chair by the window, his face etched with concern. Sunlight spilled in behind him, casting his features in soft shadow.

“Where am I?” My voice was hoarse, my throat dry and raw.

“My place,” Andy replied, standing to pour water from a pitcher resting on the nightstand. “A cabin on the edge of Westbrook Forest. Here, drink this.”

My hands trembled as I took the glass, noticing the bandages wrapped tightly around my wrists where the silver chains had left burns. The water tasted sweeter than anything I could recall, soothing my parched throat.

“How did you find me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper after draining the glass.

Andy refilled it before answering, “I was driving back from a late shift at the brewery when I saw you collapse by the side of the road. You were soaked, covered in blood, and barely breathing.” He handed me the glass again. “You were lucky I was there when I was.”

I studied his face carefully, searching for any hint of deceit but found only genuine worry. Yet, after all I’d been through, trust felt like a fragile luxury I wasn’t sure I could afford.

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