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