Seven Years His Luna, Just the Nanny

I woke to the sound of laughter drifting down from the kitchen—a sound so foreign in this house that for a moment I thought I was dreaming. The clock on my nightstand read 7:23 AM, and pale morning light filtered through the guest room curtains, casting everything in muted grays.

The guest room. My new reality.

I'd barely slept, my mind replaying the events of yesterday over and over like a broken record. Briar's violet eyes. Sterling's gentle voice reading her bedtime stories. Willow's heartbroken whisper: *Are we still a family?*

Another peal of laughter echoed through the house, followed by Sterling's voice—warm, indulgent, nothing like the cold tone he used with me and Willow.

"That's my good girl. Eat up, princess."

Princess. The endearment twisted in my chest like a knife.

I forced myself out of bed, my body aching as if I'd been hit by a truck. Every muscle protested as I pulled on my robe and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, drawn by a masochistic need to see what domestic bliss looked like.

I stopped in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat.

Sterling stood at the stove, wearing my pink floral apron—the one I'd bought for our second anniversary, hoping to inspire cozy Sunday mornings together. The sight of him in it should have been ridiculous, but instead it felt like another piece of my identity being erased.

He was stirring something in a small pot, his movements careful and deliberate. Steam rose from the surface, carrying the scent of cinnamon and vanilla.

"Almost ready, sweetheart," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder at Briar.

She sat perched on the kitchen island, swinging her legs, still in her pristine white nightgown. Her platinum hair caught the morning light like spun silk, and those unsettling violet eyes watched Sterling's every movement with rapt attention.

"Is it the special oatmeal?" she asked, her voice sweet as honey. "The kind with the brown sugar hearts?"

"Of course." Sterling's smile was soft, genuine. "Only the best for my princess."

My heart clenched. In five years, Sterling had never made breakfast for Willow. Hell, he'd never made breakfast for me. But here he was, crafting some elaborate oatmeal creation for a child he'd known for less than twenty-four hours.

I must have made some sound—a sharp intake of breath, maybe—because Briar's head snapped toward me. Those violet eyes narrowed, and her cherubic face twisted into something ugly.

"The bad woman is here," she whispered, pressing closer to Sterling. "I'm scared, Daddy."

Bad woman. The words hit me like a slap. I was standing in my own kitchen, in my own home, and this child was making me feel like an intruder.

Sterling's expression immediately hardened as he followed Briar's gaze. The warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by the cold indifference I'd grown accustomed to.

"It's alright, sweetheart," he said, setting down the spoon and lifting Briar into his arms. She wrapped her small arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder in a display of vulnerability that made my stomach churn.

"Daddy is an Alpha," Sterling continued, his voice gentle but firm. "I'll protect you. Always."

Alpha. The word reverberated through my skull like a gunshot. He'd never said that to Willow. Never promised to protect her. Never held her when she was scared or hurt or confused.

But this stranger—this child who'd appeared out of nowhere—got everything I'd been begging for. Everything Willow had been silently hoping for her entire life.

I stood there, frozen, watching my husband comfort another woman's child while treating me like a threat in my own home. The pink apron looked obscene on him now, a mockery of every domestic dream I'd ever harbored.

"Sterling," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge I'd spoken. Just continued murmuring soothing words to Briar, his large hand stroking her hair with infinite tenderness.

I'd imagined this scene a thousand times. Sterling holding our daughter, whispering reassurances, being the father Willow deserved. But it had never happened. Not once.

The oatmeal began to bubble over on the stove, the sweet smell turning acrid as it burned. Sterling didn't notice, too focused on the child in his arms.

I turned and walked away, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. Behind me, Briar's voice drifted like poison honey: "Is she gone, Daddy? I don't like her. She has mean eyes."

Mean eyes. From a four-year-old who'd looked at me with calculating coldness, who'd called me a bad woman, who'd stolen my husband's affection without even trying.

I grabbed my keys from the hall table, not bothering to change out of my robe and slippers. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to get away from the sound of Sterling's gentle laughter, from the sight of him being everything I'd dreamed he could be—just not for us.

The garage door rumbled open, and I backed out into the gray morning. The neighborhood was quiet, peaceful, as if the world hadn't tilted off its axis last night.

I drove aimlessly, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles went white. The radio played some cheerful pop song that felt like mockery, so I turned it off, leaving only the hum of the engine and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

At a red light, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. My face was pale, hollow-eyed, like a ghost of the woman I used to be. When had I become so insubstantial? When had I started disappearing?

The light turned green, and I pressed the accelerator. That's when it hit me—a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest that stole my breath. The steering wheel slipped in my suddenly sweaty palms as agony radiated through my ribcage.

I pulled over, gasping, my vision blurring at the edges. The pain was unlike anything I'd ever experienced—not the dull ache of heartbreak, but something physical, visceral, wrong.

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat. I fumbled for it with shaking hands, expecting to see Sterling's name, maybe wondering where I'd gone. Instead, it was an unknown number with the hospital's area code.

"Hello?" My voice came out strangled.

"Mrs. Mills? This is Dr. Patterson from St. Mary's Hospital. We have your test results from last week's appointment."

Test results. I'd almost forgotten about the routine checkup, the blood work, the vague complaints about fatigue that I'd attributed to stress.

"Yes?" I managed.

"I'm sorry to inform you..." The doctor's voice seemed to come from very far away. "The results show... I'm afraid it's terminal."

Terminal.

The word hung in the air like a death knell, and suddenly everything made perfect, horrible sense. The exhaustion. The pain. The way my body had been failing me, piece by piece, while my marriage crumbled around me.

I was dying.

And Sterling was already building a new family to replace me.