— Sera —
"Talia." I let the name sit in the air for a second, warm and pleasant, like we were old friends catching up. "A Luna should be generous, right?
Something flashed behind her eyes.
"Fine." Her voice came out flat. "I'll pay."
She looked at Cole. One of those looks — the kind that meant do something. He stared at her for a moment, jaw working, and then he picked up his phone and tapped a few times without a word.
My PayPal buzzed.
Eighty thousand dollars. Received.
I looked up at him.
"Sure, Alpha Cole," I said. I kept my voice soft. Walked close enough that only he could hear. "Happy to be of service."
His eyes dropped. Just for a second. Then back up.
I turned and walked to the kitchen.
Anger is a funny thing. At its worst it's loud and ugly and it makes you do things you can't take back. But when it peaks — when it goes past the point of sound — it gets very, very quiet. Almost peaceful.
That was where I was.
I stood at the kitchen counter and thought, with total clarity: so this is what I was. This is the full picture. Not his girlfriend. Not his Luna. Not even someone worth a real conversation.
A toy. A maid. A cook. A body.
All for free.
Until today.
I went to my room.
I opened my drawer.
The lingerie was still there. Valentine's Day, limited edition — his words, not mine. Ivory lace and thin straps and not much else. He'd watched me unwrap it with that slow smile and said, "I thought you'd look good in it."
I'd felt beautiful in it.
I'd cooked in it that night. His idea. We'd started in the kitchen and ended up on every surface in the apartment and I'd felt — for the first and maybe only time — like I was something precious. Something he couldn't get enough of.
Now I put it on.
Took one long look at myself in the mirror.
Then I walked out of my bedroom and into the living room in nothing but ivory lace.
Talia made a sound like a cat that had been stepped on. "What the hell — how shameless —"
I didn't look at her. I looked at Cole.
"Like what you see?" I asked. Pleasantly.
Then I walked into the kitchen and started cooking.
I heard it all. Talia's whisper — sharp, insistent. Cole, come on, let's just go out, I know a steakhouse. Cole's silence. The shifting of weight on the couch. Talia again, louder, pulling at him, naming the restaurant like it was a reward for good behavior.
And then the door.
Click.
Gone.
I stood at the stove for a moment after the sound faded.
Then my legs gave.
Not all at once. Just — slowly. Like something structural had quietly failed. I slid down the cabinet until I was sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cupboard, knees up, the lace hem of Cole's Valentine's gift pooling around me.
I cried.
I hadn't planned to. I thought I was past it. But something about being alone in that kitchen — my kitchen, the one where I'd cooked a hundred meals and hummed to myself and thought I was happy — cracked me open.
Valentine's Day.
I'd put on this exact outfit and cooked his favorite things and he'd come up behind me at the stove and slid his hands around my waist and told me I was perfect. We'd moved from the kitchen to the couch to the floor to the bedroom and back again and I'd thought: this. This is it. This is what being loved feels like.
His hands on my body. His voice in my ear. The specific weight of him. I'd felt wanted and real and like I finally, finally made sense to someone.
And the whole time — the whole time — I had been free labor.
A warm body with useful skills.
Nothing.
I stayed on the floor until I stopped shaking. Then I got up, washed my face at the kitchen sink, and went to pack the rest of my things.
I was fast. I'd learned how to pack fast a long time ago.
Twenty minutes later I walked out the door with everything I owned in two bags.
I didn't look back.
