She Called Me His Whore—I Was His Luna

Ivy's foot didn't stop.

The first kick landed squarely in my abdomen, driving the air from my lungs in a sharp gasp. Pain exploded through my core, radiating outward like shattered glass.

"Still lying?" Ivy's voice was conversational, as if she were asking about the weather.

The second kick came harder. I felt something tear inside me, a sensation like fabric ripping. The silver chains bit deeper into my wrists as I tried to curl into a protective ball, but the restraints held me open and vulnerable.

"Please," I whispered, but the wolfsbane had ravaged my throat. The word came out as barely a croak.

The third kick was the worst. I felt warmth spreading between my legs, sticky and wrong. The metallic scent of blood filled the stale air of the archives room. My body was betraying me, failing the tiny life I'd sworn to protect.

No. Not my baby. Not like this.

But I could feel it happening—the cramping, the wetness, the terrible loosening sensation that meant everything was ending. Four months of secret joy, of whispered promises to the growing life inside me, of imagining Sterling's face when I finally told him. All of it bleeding away onto the cold concrete floor.

Ivy stepped back, examining her shoe with mild disgust. "Messy," she commented, wiping the sole against the floor. "But effective."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't scream. The wolfsbane had stolen my voice along with my wolf, leaving me to suffer in silence. Tears streamed down my swollen cheeks as I felt my body expelling what remained of my hopes.

"Now then," Ivy said, pulling out her phone. "I think we need some witnesses for this interrogation. Can't have you claiming police brutality later, can we?"

She dialed a number, her tone shifting to crisp professionalism. "Sloane? I need you and two others down in sub-level two archives. Bring cameras. We have a situation that requires documentation."

Ten minutes later, the heavy door creaked open. Three women entered, their expressions shifting from curiosity to shock as they took in the scene—me, chained and bloodied, the growing pool of crimson beneath me, Ivy standing over it all with cold satisfaction.

The first woman, a blonde in her thirties with kind eyes, pressed her hand to her mouth. "Jesus Christ, Ivy. What happened here?"

"Sloane, meet our thief," Ivy said smoothly. "She broke into the Blackwood family vault and stole the Luna necklace. When confronted, she became violent."

Sloane's gaze flickered to the silver chains, to my burned wrists, to the blood. "This is... this seems excessive. Shouldn't we call security? Or the police?"

Ivy's green eyes turned arctic. "She assaulted me first. Everything you see here is justified self-defense and citizen's arrest." Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Unless you'd like to lose your job for sympathizing with a criminal?"

The threat hung in the air like poison gas. Sloane's face went pale, but she stepped back without another word.

The other two women—a nervous brunette clutching a tablet and an older woman with graying hair—exchanged glances but said nothing. They knew the rules. Ivy Castellan was Chief Beta. Her word was law.

"Excellent," Ivy continued, as if the moment of tension had never happened. "Now, I need you three to assist with this interrogation. Sloane, you'll document everything she says. Maria, photographs for evidence. And Janet, you're on security—if she tries anything, use this." She handed the older woman a silver spray bottle identical to the one she'd used on me.

I watched these strangers settle into their assigned roles, my heart sinking deeper with each passing second. They were going to help her. They were going to stand by and watch while she destroyed what was left of me.

"Now then," Ivy said, turning back to me with renewed energy. "Let's continue where we left off."

She walked over to where I'd dropped my purse when she'd first dragged me from the elevator. Dumping the contents onto a nearby table, she rifled through my belongings with clinical efficiency.

"Wallet... keys... lip balm..." She paused, holding up my phone. "And what do we have here?"

My heart clenched as she powered on the device, swiping through my contacts with predatory interest. Her eyebrows rose as she found what she was looking for.

"Sterling❤️," she read aloud, her voice dripping with mockery. "Complete with a little heart emoji. How... thorough of you."

The other women shifted uncomfortably, but none of them spoke.

"You really committed to this fantasy, didn't you?" Ivy continued, scrolling through our text messages. "Look at this, ladies. Months of fake conversations. 'Missing you,' 'Can't wait to see you tonight,' 'Love you too.' She even faked his responses."

She held up the phone so the others could see the screen, displaying our most recent exchange from yesterday morning. Sterling telling me he loved me. Me sending him a photo of the house documents, excited about signing the papers.

All of it real. All of it dismissed as elaborate fiction.

"The dedication is almost admirable," Ivy said, then smiled with cold satisfaction. "Almost."

She raised the phone above her head and brought it down hard against the concrete floor. The screen shattered with a sound like breaking bones, plastic and glass scattering across the room.

"Destruction of evidence," she announced to her makeshift jury. "Forging communications with a corporate executive. Identity theft. The charges just keep piling up, don't they, Harper?"

I tried to speak, to protest, but only a rasp emerged. The blood loss was making me dizzy, my vision swimming in and out of focus. The silver chains felt like they were burning through to my bones.

"Maria, are you getting all this?" Ivy asked the brunette with the tablet.

"Yes, ma'am," Maria replied, her fingers flying over the screen. "Should I note the... medical situation?"

Ivy glanced down at the blood pooling beneath me with clinical detachment. "Note that the suspect became violent and injured herself during the struggle. Self-inflicted wounds from resisting arrest."

The lie was so brazen, so utterly shameless, that I felt what remained of my hope finally die. These women were going to help her bury the truth. They were going to document her version of events and call it justice.

Sloane was staring at the broken phone, her face troubled. "Ivy, if she really did fake all those messages, how did she get Mr. Blackwood's personal number? That's not public information."

"Corporate espionage," Ivy replied without missing a beat. "She probably hacked our systems. We'll have IT run a full security audit once we're done here."

But even as she spoke, I saw something flicker across her face. A moment of uncertainty, quickly masked but unmistakably there.

Then the door burst open.

A young woman in an IT department polo stumbled into the room, her face flushed from running. She clutched a tablet against her chest, her eyes wide with panic.

"Ivy," she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. "I just ran the trace you requested on the Luna necklace. The GPS tracker..."

The room went dead silent.

"The signal," the IT girl continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's been sending location data to Mr. Blackwood's personal phone. For three years. Continuous tracking."

Ivy's face went white as bone.