Layla
The real show was about to begin any minute now. But today, it felt like my life was the one being performed—not just the drama on stage.
I walked beside Alpha Tristan, wrapped in a silk gown so expensive it practically dripped with pretension.
Around my neck hung an Alexandrite pendant he’d fastened on me himself—part of his little showpiece. Not out of affection, of course.
He didn’t dress me to honour me. He dressed me up like a trophy.
Trailing behind us was Rovena, face twisted in a sour scowl. She kept tugging at the hem of her gown, clearly struggling to keep up.
I stifled a laugh. A bit of comic relief before the humiliation began.
At least the scene made her remember her place.
But I should’ve known better. That small joy didn’t last long.
"Alpha, I can’t walk properly. My heel keeps getting caught in the hem of my dress," she whined in that sickly sweet tone, cocking her head. "I don’t want to embarrass you. Could Luna Layla link arms with me instead?"
I stopped, turning slowly.
"Are you hurt?" Alpha Tristan asked, leaning down to inspect her legs.
"My shoes are fine," she cooed. "But… I want to switch gowns with Luna Layla. And her lovely pendant too."
Every muscle in my body stiffened. Alpha Tristan straightened up and turned to me.
His eyes—ice cold, glacier sharp. Not a single word escaped him.
He didn’t need to speak. His glare said it all.
“She’s not your Luna,” I said firmly. “And I’m not your mistress.”
“Switch your gowns,” his Alpha Tone, voice like a blade, “or you’ll be leaving tonight with not a shred of fabric on your body.”
Rovena repeated Alpha Tristan’s orders to me.
My hands clenched into fists, but I lowered my gaze. “Fine. Enjoy it while it lasts, Rovena.”
We changed gowns in the washroom. I could practically see her gloating, eyes gleaming with that fake sense of victory.
But me? I didn’t walk out as an omega. I walked out as the final witness of a farce that was about to collapse.
**
The lights had dimmed in the exclusive balcony section.
Seats were filled with high-ranking werewolves from across Britain, all gathered for tonight’s grand performance: Les Misérables.
A classic. A tale of pain and redemption. I knew it well.
But something was off. Tucked beneath my chair was a slim leaflet. I opened it, frowning.
The title wasn’t Les Misérables anymore.
It read: The Fallen Luna.
Lead role: Layla.
My name, in bold. Like the world had decided I was the punchline to a cruel joke.
I gripped the leaflet tighter. What the hell was this?
I kept my expression blank. Pretended not to hear. My deafness—once a curse—was now my only shield.
But then Alpha Tristan leaned in, voice like poison.
"This play is for you, Luna Layla. A tribute to who you truly are."
My stomach dropped.
The curtains parted. Somber music filled the hall.
The lead actress stepped onto the stage, wearing a long black wig and a face sculpted into misery.
Her name? Layla.
In the play, she was a lowly prostitute who sold herself to feed her daughter—Naomi.
I trembled. I tried to stand, to flee—but the stage lights shifted and pinned me in their glare.
Alpha Tristan rose from his seat.
“I dedicate this performance,” he announced, voice ringing through the theatre, “to my mate—Luna Layla. Whose life mirrors this story in every foul and disgraceful way.”
Laughter erupted from the crowd.
“An Alpha, with her?”
“She’s a disgrace.”
“She’s a curse, not a Luna.”
Each word sliced into me like a whip.
Tears streamed down my face. My chest tightened.
I wanted to run. To scream. But my legs—my entire body—refused to obey.
A curse. Literally.
I looked at my wrists. Bound in magic. Rovena’s doing.
I turned my head and saw her—smiling. Content. Vicious.
I fought it. Fought hard. But the spell clung to me like chains.
Then the chaos began.
The ceiling trembled. A low rumble grew louder from beyond the theatre walls.
Panic swept the room. A burst of magic zipped through the air, sparking violently.
Dark silhouettes—werewolves—stormed through the main doors. Their shadows swallowed whole sections of the audience.
Screams. Chairs scraped. People fled.
Then a blast of energy hit my section of the balcony.
I was thrown to the floor, my body wracked with pain. Still bound. Still helpless.
All I could do was watch.
Rovena stood, casting a spell circle with frantic hands.
But each time she launched an attack, something—some unknown force—reflected it back, breaking her magic apart.
Alpha Tristan appeared in the midst of it all, eyes wide. But when he spotted the two of us, he didn’t hesitate.
He ran straight to Rovena then left me.
One of the reflected spells struck her. Her body convulsed, writhing with raw magical feedback.
But he still didn’t stop. He cradled her, shielding her with a protective spell.
“Alpha!” I screamed. “Free me—please!”
He looked back, only for a moment.
“I don’t care if you die, Layla,” he spat. “This… is justice.”
Then he turned his back on me.
Tears hit the cold stone floor beneath me.
This time, there was no hiding it. No shielding myself from the truth.
He never intended to protect me.
But then… footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.
A figure stepped into view. A large wolf with deep silver fur—familiar.
“Aiken?” I croaked.
The wolf drew closer, lifting me into his arms with ease.
“Please,” I whispered, breath shallow. “I’m still under a binding spell. I can’t move…”
The ceiling groaned above us. The theatre was starting to collapse.
And then—his voice. Calm. Resonant. But not Aiken’s.
“I’m not him,” he said gently, when he shifted to human form. “Supreme Alpha Finley sent me. You’re safe now.”
My vision was blurred, but I could feel the warmth of his body as he cradled me, carrying me through the wreckage of the theatre roof.
Minutes passed, and I was already in the back seat of a car—leaving behind the hell Alpha Tristan had built for me.
And I swore, under my breath.
I would return on the next lunar eclipse to drag every last one of them—those who hurt Naomi, those who broke me— into the fire they once threw me into.
