Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 105

Chapter 103

Talia’s POV

The mother–daughter duo on stage captivates the audience. The mother’s bass skills are impressive: clean technique, emotional depth, the kind of musicianship that comes from years of dedicated practice.

Even when her daughter, Daisy, fumbles a few notes due to nerves, the mother doesn’t flinch. She adjusts seamlessly, guiding the child back on track without missing a beat. It’s a masterclass in

composure.

Robin leans close, whispering

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introductions with the earnestness of a

born gossip. “That’s Daisy Wilson. Her grandfather owns Wilson Jewelry you know, the ones with the commercials everywhere? Daisy says her mom has been playing bass since she was little. That’s why she chose it as her ‘side job.‘ She started teaching Daisy when she was three.”

I nod, watching with genuine appreciation. Daisy’s mother is talented, and Daisy herself shows promise even at her young age. The mistakes are minor, quickly corrected. For a five–year–old to recover so smoothly under stage lights? That’s impressive. The judges will note the recovery, not the error. They always das

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The visual appeal helps too–slender mother with elegant features, doll–like daughter with sparkling eyes, both glowing under the stage lights like something from a painting. When they finish, the applause is thunderous, genuine.

Electra claps enthusiastically beside me, nearly bouncing in her seat. “What a wonderful opening! Oh, by the way, Talia… the teacher came while you were changing. We’re performing last.”

I turn, surprised. “Last? Is Imema before

me?”

Electra nods, her lip curling with familiar

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disgust. “She’s still fixing her disaster of a makeup job. There’s apparently not enough time for her to get ready properly, but she absolutely insisted on performing before you. Shameless. Absolutely shameless.”

Robin looks up at us, confusion wrinkling his small brow. “Electra, isn’t last place good? Like the finale? That’s the best part, right?”

Electra sighs, settling into teacher mode. She pats his head gently. “Sweetheart, in performances, the opening and finale are both important–the opening grabs attention, the finale provides climax. But in competitions? Being last is actually a disadvantage.”

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She gestures to the stage where the next performers are setting up. “People’s attention spans are limited, you see. After hours of watching performance after performance, judges get tired. Their focus wanders. They miss details, they focus on flaws instead of highlights. And if they’ve seen something truly impressive earlier in the day, everything afterward starts feeling boring by comparison. It’s just human nature.”

Robin’s brow furrows deeper. “I always thought the last performer was special. Like the grand finale at a concert.”

“Only if you’re extraordinary enough to overcome audience fatigue.” Electra

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shakes her head sadly. “Otherwise, it’s a recipe for empty seats and low scores. That’s why no one fought us for this slot -they all know it’s risky. They’d rather perform early when the judges are fresh and generous.”

She glances at the electronic scoreboard displaying current results. The average so far is 96–impressively high. “See how high the opening score is? First performer always has an advantage. Fresh audience, no comparisons yet, no fatigue. Even equally strong performances later struggle to match that initial score. It’s just how these things work.”

She’s right. As we watch, five or six subsequent acts take the stage, some

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quite talented, but none have surpassed that opening score. The numbers stagnate, then slowly decline.

Electra surveys the stage with growing puzzlement. “Wait a minute, this is supposed to be a talent competition–why is everyone playing instruments? Where’s the singing? The dancing? Isn’t that talent too?”

Raymond, looking thoroughly bored beside us, answers without shifting his gaze from the stage. “Singing and dancing aren’t considered ‘high art‘ in our circles. Children of wealthy families learn classical instruments–piano, piano, cello, the occasional harp. It’s about prestige, not entertainment. About signaling

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refinement and discipline.”

Electra’s eyes widen with understanding. “Ah. So it’s all about appearances. Of course. Why am I surprised?”

On stage, a child pianist performs poorly -rushed, nervous, missing half the notes. Likely they’re aware they can’t compete today, that the standards are too high, the competition too fierce. They barely scrape eighty points and exit quickly, faces

flushed with embarrassment.

୮

Electra watches with a mix of sympathy and fascination.

A teacher approaches our row, clipboard in hand. “Robin and guardian? Please 14:24

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make your way backstage. You’re next after the current performer.”

I take Robin’s small hand in mine, feeling his slight tremor. “We’re ready.”

Electra pumps her fist with theatrical enthusiasm. “Destroy them, Talia! I know you can do this! Bring down the house!”

I smile, squeezing her hand briefly. “I will.”

For my mother’s necklace, I have to win. There’s no other option.

***

Backstage, several families wait their 14:24

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turn, children fidgeting in formal wear, parents checking scores on phones. The competition is nearing its end; the current highest score holds at 98, set by that opening act.

When I enter, the atmosphere shifts palpably. Eyes slide over me, assessing, dismissing, categorizing. Some parents turn away deliberately, contempt plain on their carefully made–up faces. Others whisper behind manicured hands, glances sharp with judgment.

Word travels fast in wealthy circles. They’ve heard the rumors by now–the wife with no family name, no prestigious education, no social status to speak of. In their world, I’m beneath notice. Beneath 24

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contempt. Worse than a mistress, because at least mistresses bring youth or beauty or something to the table. I apparently bring nothing.

I ignore them all, guiding Robin to an empty corner. A voice chimes in, female, dripping with false sympathy. “Poor thing. Imagine being so desperate for attention that you’d humiliate yourself in public like this. And dragging that poor innocent child into your drama… what did he ever do to deserve this?”

“The child isn’t mine.” My voice is calm, uninterested, as if discussing the weather. “He’s the son of Raymond Capaldi.

Perhaps you’ve heard of the Capaldi

Group? The international conglomerate224

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Silence.

I glance up, catching the flicker of recognition in their eyes, followed by rapid backtracking.

Robin squeezes my hand, looking up at me with absolute trust and confidence. He doesn’t understand the politics, the prejudices, the stacked odds against us.

I squeeze back, offering a small, genuine

smile.

୮

Just then, a sneering voice cuts through the quiet.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the famous Talia

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