Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 280

Alpha’s Discarded Luna

Chapter 277

Tal

Ft.

delier lights shatter into brilliant prisms across the marble floor of the grand hall. Jack’s Charity Gala for dren’s medical center is nothing short of spectacular, ering testament to his influence and his genuinely good

stand near the center of the massive ballroom, a delicate crystal flute of sparkling water in my hand, taking in the overwhelming, opulent crowd.

Critics in sharp, tailored suits, media personnel with flashing cameras, and the upper–pack elites of high society fill the sprawling space. The air is thick with the suffocating hum of wealth, privilege, and the scent of expensive champagne.

Electra stands firmly on my left, her chin held high. Her presence is a fierce, silent guard against anyone who might look at me the wrong way. On my right, Jack is already deep in conversation with a major corporate sponsor, his charismatic smile working eff pediatric wi

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secure vital funding for the new

ng the skirt of my peneath my fingertips.

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Chapter 277

But tonight, I am not here as an appendage to a powerful Alpha. I am not a discarded housewife seeking validation. I am here for the children. The cause anchors me, providing a solid, immovable foundation beneath my silver heels.

Suddenly, the low, ambient murmur of the crowd shifts. The pitch changes, transforming into a wave of eager, venomous whispering that ripples toward us like a current in the ocean. I turn my head, my senses immediately on high alert.

Imema is parting the crowd like a silver knife slicing through silk.

She wears a dress of pure, angelic white, her delicate features twisted into a mask of sweet, practiced innocence. She clings to the arm of her companion, but it isn’t Imema who draws the hushed, awed gasps from the music critics and high–society patrons. It is the man walking beside her.

Cassian.

Even I know his face. He is Old Master Gerard’s most prized student, a legendary piano prodigy known just as much for his ruthless, biting arrogance as his blinding technical skill, He carries himself like a deity descending among mortals, his sharp. aristocratic jaw tilted upward, his dark eyes scanning the room with utter, unapologetic boredom. His tuxedo is immaculately tailored, every inch of him screaming elite perfection.

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But tonight, I am not here as an appendage to a powerful Alpha. I am not a discarded housewife seeking validation. I am here for the children. The cause anchors me, providing a solid, immovable foundation beneath my silver heels.

Suddenly, the low, ambient murmur of the crowd shifts. The pitch changes, transforming into a wave of eager, venomous whispering that ripples toward us like a current in the ocean. I turn my head, my senses immediately on high alert.

Imema is parting the crowd like a silver knife slicing through silk.

She wears a dress of pure, angelic white, her delicate features twisted into a mask of sweet, practiced innocence. She clings to the arm of her companion, but it isn’t Imema who draws the hushed, awed gasps from the music critics and high–society patrons. It is the man walking beside her.

Cassian.

Even I know his face. He is Old Master Gerard’s most prized student, a legendary piano prodigy known just as much for his

biting arrogance as his blinding technical skill. He

(like a deity descending among mortals, his sharp, tilted upward, his dark eyes scanning the room logetic boredom, His tuxedo is immaculately ch of him screaming elite perfection.

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deliberately bringing the heavy, judgmental weight of the crowd’s attention with her.

“Talia! What a pleasant surprise to see you here,” Imema chimes as she stops just a few feet in front of me. Her voice is purposely loud, projecting clearly enough to ensure the circling critics and sponsors hear every single word. “I was just telling Cassian all about your… sudden interest in the piano. It is so inspiring how you have picked up a little hobby to pass the time after your divorce.”

Jack stops talking to his sponsor mid–sentence. His brow furrows deeply, his relaxed posture instantly turning rigid as he steps closer to my side. Electra’s eyes narrow into dangerous, feline slits, her fingers twitching at her sides.

Cassian doesn’t even bother to offer a polite greeting. He looks me up and down, his gaze entirely dismissive, as if he is inspecting a piece of dirt on his shoe.

“So this is the viral internet sensation,” he drawls, his voice dripping with heavy condescension. “I must say, I am rather disappointed. I expected someone with at least a fraction of the aura required to command a stage. But then again, the public has always possessed a tragically low standard.”

“Cassian is here to offer a true, professional performance for the charity,” Imema adds quickly, placing a gentle, reverent hand gy his arm. She looks at Jack with wide, innocent eyes We12.18

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presence irritates me. I will not give her the satisfaction of a reaction. “Any contribution to the children’s center is appreciated,” I say evenly, my voice remarkably steady. “The cause is what matters tonight.”

Cassian scoffs. It is a sharp, ugly sound that cuts through the surrounding murmurs like glass. He steps closer, intentionally invading my space, using his height to try and intimidate me.

“Please. Let us not pretend you are here for the charity,” Cassian sneers, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You are here to leech off your mother’s ghost.”

The air in my lungs vanishes.

The ambient noise of the ballroom–the clinking glasses, the soft jazz playing in the background, the murmurs of the wealthy- suddenly fades into a distant, ringing buzz.

“I know exactly who you are, Talia Johnson,” Cassian continues, his voice rising in volume, ensuring the journalists standing nearby catch every syllable. “Serena’s daughter. The supposed heir to a musical genius. The blogs are comparing your sloppy, unrefined playing to classical mastery. It is an absolute insult to the art form.”

Jack steps forward, his jaw light, his voice low and warning. “That is enough, Cassian. You are a guest here–”

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Cassian smirks, entirely emboldened by my response. He thinks I am yielding. He thinks I am weak.

“Your mother was a fraud,” Cassian says, the words leaving his mouth with venomous pleasure. “Serena’s famous compositions? They were nothing but sentimental garbage. Pure, theatrical drivel designed to manipulate the weak–minded masses. She lacked real technical discipline, and it seems you have inherited her complete lack of formal skill. You are an uneducated amateur parading around in a world that belongs to true prodigies. It is pathetic.”

A heavy, suffocating silence falls over our entire corner of the ballroom. The critics watch with bated breath, their pens practically hovering over their notepads. Imema covers her mouth with her hand, pretending to be shocked by his harsh words, but her eyes dance with triumph.

They expect me to crumble and lower my head, admit defeat, and accept my place in the dirt beneath their expensive, polished shoes.

But the insult to my late mother snaps the last remaining thread of my patience.

The calm, composed facade I have carefully maintained shatters completely. In its place, a cold, fierce anger ignites, burning through my veins like liquid nitrogen.

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I hand my glass of sparkling water to Electra without breaking eye contact with Cassian

I step forward, closing the distance between us until we are mere inches apart. I do not shrink beneath his height. I do not cower under the weight of his elite reputation or the flashing cameras that have suddenly turned in our direction. I pull my shoulders back, lifting my chin, and I stare directly into his dark, mocking

eyes.

The fire in my chest is pure fury, demanding to be unleashed. The whispering crowd holds its collective breath as the temperature between us drops to freezing. I look at this prodigy, this man who thinks his mechanical perfection makes him a god, and I prepare to drag him straight back down to earth.