Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 21

Alpha’s Discarded Luria

Chapter 21

Talia’s POV

The screen auto-scrolls to the next video, and Imema’s pitiful voice pours out.

“Luna Talia, you don’t need to remind me. I already know I don’t have much time left. I’m just trying to make the most of the days I have, with the people I cherish. But I should have realised… everything I get is fake, just because Aires pities me.”

Her lip quivers, “You’re right to hate me. That ceremony, that life… it should have been yours. I’m so sorry I’m still here-”

The video moves on with a choppy, low quality cut.

It shows the security footage from Imema’s Welcome party from

years ago.

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My arm is stretched out while Imema stumbles backward into the pool and crashes with a splash. Even after stretching the incident in slow motion, the clip is only five seconds long.

It shows nothing of the argument that came before, nothing of her goading, just the fall.

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It cuts again, and to my surprise, the scene from this morning appears on the screen.

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I’m standing frozen on the sidewalk while Imema lurches off the curb like she has been pushed brutally. The video ends with the squeal of brakes as Aires pulls her to safety.

The video is meant to establish a history of violence, culminating in a public attempt on her life.

I close my eyes for a second, but I can still see the comments scrolling behind my eyelids.

They burn my blood.

[So she has six months and this monster curses her to die?]

[She trapped the Alpha! She’s the reason Imema got sick, I bet! Psychosomatic stress is a thing, people!]

[What a waste of a pretty face. So hollow and cruel from inside!]

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[As someone whose very close friend’s a surgeon, that face is 100% bought and paid for with her husband’s money.]

[This is attempted murder. @CityPolice, wake up!]

[Imema is a saint. A virtuoso pianist. And that… thing is just a gold-digging housewife.]

The hatred is a uniform wave. There is no dissent. No one

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questions the footage, the timeline, the motives. The story is too clean, too satisfying. The evil Omega versus the angelic, dying true love. I am a caricature they can all safely hate.

I scroll until my thumb aches, my face blank. Then I close the app. I take three slow, deep breaths. The air feels thin. Think. Damage control. A statement? A lawsuit?

My phone rings, shattering the fragile quiet. The screen shows: Nick’s name and still, I answer. I don’t know why.

His voice is a sneer given sound. “Talia. Imema’s conscious. Aires wants you at the hospital. Now. To apologize.”

“I’m not coming,” I say, my voice flat as stone.

He laughs, a short, ugly sound. “He said you’d say that. He said to tell you you’ll regret it.”

Something finally snaps. A cold, clear fury, brighter than any hurt, surges up. “Tell Alpha Perseus,” I say, each word precise and glacial, “that mating him is the single greatest regret of my life.”

I end the call and turn the phone off.

***

Byghe next morning, the storm shows no signs of slowing downg

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In fact, the noise has only grown in intensity and volume. I have gone viral in the worst possible way, by becoming public enemy number one: the poster woman for a toxic and cunning wife who has baby-trapped her husband.

Regardless of all that, I wake up at my usual time. I make breakfast for Robin, oatmeal with honey and banana milk. He eats quietly, watching me with his wise eyes as I move through the motions robotically, focusing all my energy on getting him to school on time.

When it’s time, we go downstairs. The bright morning sun blinds me for a moment as we step out of the building’s lobby.

“There she is!”

The shout is shrill. I turn my head just as the first missile flies. A rotten egg. It’s aimed at my face.

I have a split second. I can duck. But Robin is right beside me, a small, pale shadow.

I don’t duck. I pivot, wrapping my arms around him, turning my back. The egg hits my shoulder with a wet, sickening splat. The stench of sulfur fills my nose.

A group of girls, maybe university-aged, their faces twisted with self-righteous rage, charge forward. They carry baskets of filth-

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brown lettuce, more eggs, tomatoes.

“You psychotic bitch! You tried to kill her!”

“Gold-digging whore! Your face is a lie!”

“Murderer!”

They scream, hurling their ammunition. A tomato explodes against my chest. Brown juice stains my white blouse, looking eerily like blood. Passersby stop and stare, their faces a blur of shock and morbid curiosity.

These are Imema’s fans.

Naturally, she gathers sympathy as the dying pianist, promoted by the Perseus Group’s media arm. Aires built her this platform, this army… and now they’ve been unleashed on me.

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“Jacob!” I shout, my voice cutting through their screams. The driver is already moving, his face grim. I shove Robin toward him. “Take him! Now!”

Jacob nods, scooping Robin up. “Master Robin, we must go.”

“No!” Robin struggles, his small hands reaching for me. “Lia! I won’t leave you!”

Higcry slices through the chaos, a clean, sharp pain. My own6.28

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husband and son see me as the villain. This child I’ve known for two days wants to stand with me.

“Robin, go!” I plead, dodging a flying water bottle. “I can’t protect you if you stay! Please!”

His eyes, wide and desperate, meet mine. Jacob doesn’t wait. He bundles him into the car. The black sedan peels away from the

curb.

The moment it turns the corner, the next projectile finds its mark. A full plastic water bottle, thrown with force. It doesn’t hit my padded back. It connects with the side of my head, just above my temple.

A crack of thunder inside my skull. White light. Then a warm,

wet trickle.

I stumble, my knees buckling. I touch my forehead. My fingers come away slick and red.

The girls fall silent. The rage on their faces flickers, replaced by a sudden, uneasy shock. They were warriors behind screens, in a mob. The sight of real blood is a language they don’t understand.

Someone mutters, “Oh, shit.” Another whispers, “We should

go.”

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Before they can scatter, a new sound cuts the air: the deep, purring engine of a car that costs more than this entire block. A long, black, armored sedan glides to a stop beside me, as silent and ominous as a shark.

The crowd freezes, then melts away, disappearing into the morning foot traffic without another word.

The passenger window glides down.

I look up, blood dripping into my eye, blurring the world.

Aires sits in the back seat. His silver eyes take in the rotten food staining my clothes, the blood streaming down my face, the utter ruin of me.

His expression is impassive, carved from ice. There’s no concern. No shock. Only a cold, judicial assessment.

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He looks at me, his gaze sweeping over the evidence of the public execution he indirectly sanctioned.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet, devoid of any emotion at all.

“Talia! Do you now realise what your selfishness and stubbornness has cost you?”

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Alpha’s Discarded Luria