False Luna

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The humiliation from Victoria's pregnancy announcement still burned through me like acid as I stumbled back to the mansion, my hands shaking with a mixture of rage and devastation.

The grand foyer that had once intimidated me now felt like a monument to my own naivety. Two years. Two years I'd spent trying to belong in this world, only to discover I was never meant to stay.

With Alexander still at the party—celebrating his impending fatherhood, no doubt—I found myself drawn to his private study. The security panel beside his desktop computer glowed softly in the darkness. I'd seen him punch in the code countless times, always careful to shield it from my view, but I'd caught glimpses. Four digits. His birthday? No. Isabella's?

My fingers hovered over the keypad. 0-4-1-7. April 17th.

The screen unlocked with a soft beep.

My heart pounded as I navigated to the security footage archives. If I was going to leave—and I knew now I had to leave—I needed to understand exactly what I'd been part of. How deep the deception went.

I clicked on the folder labeled "External Properties" and found the Malibu beach house sub-folder. With trembling fingers, I scrolled back through the dates. Two years ago. Our wedding night.

The footage was crisp, high-definition. The timestamp read 11:42 PM—barely two hours after we'd cut our wedding cake. There was Alexander, still in his tuxedo pants and white shirt, the bow tie undone around his neck, stepping out of his Bentley. Victoria waited at the door of her beach house, wrapped in nothing but a silk robe that billowed in the ocean breeze.

"You're late," her lips formed the words, though the footage had no audio.

"Had to make an appearance," Alexander replied, visible in his expression and body language—the casual dismissal of our wedding night.

Victoria's smile was predatory as she pulled him inside by his shirt collar. The camera angle switched to the interior entryway, where Alexander pressed her against the wall, his hands tangling in her hair as he kissed her with a passion he'd never once shown me.

I forced myself to keep watching as they stumbled toward her bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing. The timestamp continued to tick by as I sat frozen, watching the husband I thought I knew make love to another woman on our wedding night.

Hours of footage. Hours while I'd waited in our honeymoon suite, wondering why he was "tied up with business."

I clicked through more dates—birthdays, anniversaries, ordinary weekdays. The pattern was always the same. Alexander, leaving me with a cold excuse, rushing to Victoria's arms the moment he was out of my sight.

In one clip, dated just three months ago, they sat on her terrace overlooking the Pacific. "When are you going to tell her?" Victoria asked, sipping champagne.

"When I'm ready," Alexander replied, his arm draped possessively around her shoulders. "She serves a purpose for now."

"And what purpose is that?" Victoria's smile was cruel.

"She looks like Isabella. Sometimes, in the right light..." He trailed off, and Victoria's expression hardened.

"You can't keep chasing a ghost forever, Alexander."

"I know." He kissed her then, deeply. "That's why I have you."

I closed the laptop, bile rising in my throat. Every memory, every moment I'd treasured, now tainted by the knowledge that I'd been living a lie.

Moving on autopilot, I went to our—his—bedroom and pulled my Hermès suitcase from the closet. I began throwing in clothes, toiletries, anything I could think of that was truly mine.

"Planning a trip?"

I whirled around to find Alexander leaning against the doorframe of the master suite study, watching me with cold amusement. How long had he been there?

"I'm leaving," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Are you?" He crossed to his desk and picked up a thick manila envelope, tossing it onto the bed beside my half-packed suitcase. "You might want to read this first."

I opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Divorce papers. Already drawn up, dated three weeks ago.

"You get nothing," Alexander said, his voice casual, almost bored. "The prenup is ironclad. No alimony, no property, no shares in the company. You walk away with exactly what you came with—nothing."

"You planned this all along," I whispered, the papers shaking in my hands.

His smile was razor-sharp. "Did you really think someone like you would end up with someone like me without a catch? You were a placeholder, Emma. A warm body that reminded me of someone I actually loved."

I stuffed the papers back into the envelope and threw it at his feet. "Keep your money. I want nothing from you."

I grabbed my suitcase and pushed past him, my Omega pheromones spiking with distress and fury. For once, he didn't try to control me with his Alpha dominance. He simply watched, that smirk still playing on his lips, as I dragged my suitcase down the grand staircase.

Outside, the California sky had opened up in a rare downpour. Rain lashed against my face as I pulled my suitcase down the long driveway, my designer heels sinking into the sodden grass. By the time I reached Beverly Drive, I was drenched, my carefully maintained appearance washed away along with the last vestiges of my marriage.

Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the empty street. My vision blurred—from tears or rain, I couldn't tell anymore. My legs gave way beneath me, my Omega physiology finally buckling under the strain of prolonged distress and pheromone imbalance.

As darkness closed in around me, I was vaguely aware of headlights, voices, someone kneeling beside me on the wet pavement.

"Call an ambulance! This woman needs help!"

My last conscious thought was that I'd never felt more alone in my life—or more determined to survive.