False Luna

The charity gala had ended earlier than expected. I smoothed down my emerald silk gown—a designer piece Alexander had insisted I wear to "look the part" of a Thornton wife—as I stepped through our Beverly Hills mansion's grand foyer. My heels clicked against the marble floors, echoing through the empty hallways.

"Alexander?" I called out, my voice bouncing off the high ceilings.

No answer.

A smile tugged at my lips. Perhaps I could surprise him in his study with a nightcap. After two years of marriage, we still maintained certain formalities, a distance I'd always attributed to his reserved nature. Tonight, though, something inside me yearned to bridge that gap.

As I climbed the sweeping staircase toward our bedroom wing, I heard it—faint at first, then unmistakable. Moans. Rhythmic creaking. My steps faltered, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribs with such force I thought it might break through.

*No. It can't be.*

I stood frozen outside our master bedroom door, my hand hovering over the crystal doorknob. The sounds grew louder—a woman's high-pitched gasps, a man's deeper groans. My husband's voice.

Something primal took over. I pushed the door open and flicked on the chandelier light in one swift motion.

The California king bed—our bed—was occupied by two writhing figures. Victoria Lexington, the socialite who always seemed to materialize at every event we attended, was straddling my husband, her sleek body arched in pleasure, her designer dress pushed up around her waist. Alexander's hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements.

Time seemed to stop. The crystal chandelier cast prismatic rainbows across their sweat-slicked skin, creating a surreal, nightmarish tableau.

"Alexander?" My voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

They froze. Victoria turned her head slowly, her perfect features arranging themselves into a look of smug satisfaction rather than embarrassment. Alexander's eyes met mine, and what I saw there shattered something fundamental inside me.

There was no shock. No guilt. Only irritation at the interruption.

"Emma." He didn't even push Victoria off him. "You're back early."

"What is this?" I whispered, my Texan accent—something I'd worked so hard to soften—suddenly thick in my distress.

Alexander's lips curled into a sneer I'd never seen before. "What does it look like?"

Victoria laughed, a tinkling sound like expensive crystal. She made no move to cover herself, instead stretching languorously, showcasing her body.

"I don't understand," I said, my voice breaking. "We're married. For two years—"

"Oh, honey." Alexander's tone dripped with condescension. "A Texas country substitute dare question what happens in Beverly Hills? Victoria is my fiancée. My real fiancée."

The words hit me like physical blows. "Substitute? What are you talking about?"

"Isabella," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "You look like her. That's all you ever were—a placeholder until I was ready to make things official with Victoria."

My Omega pheromones spiked with distress, filling the room with the scent of crushed wildflowers. Alexander's nostrils flared in distaste.

"Control yourself," he snapped. "Your country breeding is showing."

Victoria slid off him with deliberate slowness, reaching for her champagne glass on the nightstand. "You know, Emma, he's never once called me by your name. Can't say the same for you, though." She smiled, all perfect teeth and malice. "How many times has he called you Isabella in bed?"

The room swayed. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself.

Victoria stood, her naked body glowing in the chandelier light. With theatrical deliberation, she tilted her head to reveal a constellation of dark bruises along her neck and collarbone.

"See these?" She traced them with manicured fingers. "Alexander left these last weekend at my Malibu villa. He marked me everywhere." Her eyes gleamed with cruel triumph. "He's never that passionate with you, is he? Never that alive?"

My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. Two years of marriage—all a lie. I was nothing but a stand-in, a ghost of someone else. My Omega pheromones spiraled wildly out of control, the scent of distress so strong it made Victoria wrinkle her nose in disgust.

"God, Alexander," she complained. "Can't you make her stop that? It's giving me a headache."

As my world collapsed around me, one thought crystallized with perfect, terrible clarity: everything I thought I knew about my life was a carefully constructed illusion, and I had just crashed through the looking glass into the brutal truth.