Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 287

Chapter 284

Talia’s POV

The heavy, soundproof door of the independent recording studio shuts out the rest of the world with a solid, satisfying click.

Inside this small sanctuary, the suffocating atmosphere of the high–society ballroom completely evaporates. Here, there are no flashing cameras, no judgmental upper–pack elites, and no lingering ghosts of Aires’s cold indifference. There is only the clean, honest scent of electronic equipment, polished wood, and old sheet music.

Over the next forty–eight hours, I completely immerse myself in this space, working around the clock to polish the pieces for my upcoming breakthrough concert.

My fingers trace the ivory keys of the studio’s grand piano. My body still carries a faint, residual ache from the severe fever that drained me days ago, but the moment I strike the first chord, my mind clears entirely.

The melody flows through my veins like a tonic, anchoring my soul. I don’t play to prove my work to elite

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critics anymore, nor do I play to humairs the arrogant prodigies who try to step into my path. I play because the music belongs to me. It is the only sovereign kingdom where no one has the power to dictate my value.

I spend hours refining the delicate transitions of my mother’s unreleased masterpiece. Every sharp cadence must be flawless; every emotional shift must carry the exact weight of the legacy I am reclaiming.

“Let’s take it from the second movement again, Talia,” the sound engineer’s voice crackles through the studio monitor, breaking my concentration. “The audio levels are perfect, but the timing on the crescendo needs to slide just a fraction of a second later to catch the bass notes.

I offer a brief, serious nod, rolling up the sleeves of my soft gray sweater. “Understood. Let’s loop it from the twelfth bar.”

I drop my hands back onto the keys, letting the storm of sound consume me. I lose track of time entirely. The clock on the mixing desk blinks, marking the passage of hours, shifting from bright afternoon to the deep, silent chill of midnight.

11

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My throat feels dry, and my clothes cling slightly to my skin from the physical exertion of the continuous practice, but I refuse to stop. My independent concert is only days away. This is my moment of absolute freedom, the culmination of everything I have suffered to rebuild, and I will not let a single note fall short of perfection.

As I play, the image of my late mother smiles back at me from the sheet music. I am finally standing on my own two feet, building a fortress out of the very art they tried to strip away from me.

No matter what schemes Imema or the Nelson family try to weave in the dark, they cannot touch the music. In this room, I am completely untouchable.

Aeson’s POV

inch, my

I pull the heavy wooden drawer open just an inch, small fingers moving as quietly as possible so I don’t disturb the silence of the apartment.

Robin is sitting at the nearby study desk, his eyes locked onto his tablet screen as he works through

sequence

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but my wolf instincts keep pulling me toward the small, locked cabinet in the corner of Mom’s bedroom.

Using a slender silver paperclip I found on the desk, I carefully click the simple latch open. Inside, tucked away beneath a stack of soft vanilla–scented scarves, is a small, faded velvet pouch.

I pull it out and open it, my heart thumping hard against my ribs. I pull out an old, preserved photograph.

I stare at the woman in the picture. She has the exact same elegant tilt of the head as Mom, the same deep, sovereign eyes that look like they can see right through the world. She is sitting at a grand piano, her slender hands poised over the keys like a queen commanding her

court.

“Robin,” I whisper, my voice tiny and filled with a quiet awe as I walk back into the living room, holding the picture flat between both palms so it doesn’t bend. “Look at this.”

Robin looks up from his tablet, his analytical expression instantly softening as his eyes drop to the photograph. He slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Where did

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you find that, Aeson? That is her.”

“She is hidden in Mom’s special drawer,” I say, sitting down cross–legged on the rug beside his chair. I trace the edge of the silver frame with my thumb, a profound warmth spreading through my chest. “She is my angel grandma who died long ago. Serena.”

“Aunt Tia looks exactly like her when she plays,” Robin murmurs, nodding seriously. “She has the same hands.”

I stare at the angel grandma in the photograph, a sudden, heavy wave of heat flaring up beneath my collar. My mind automatically begins to compare this beautiful, quiet face with the dark stories I was told at the mansion.

I remember sitting on the cold marble floor of the grand patio, playing with my wooden wolf cubs while Grandma Diana sipped her tea and looked down her nose at me.

“You must never look into your biological mother’s lineage, Aeson, “Grandma Diana’s sharp, haughty voice echoes in my head, dripping with historical disdain. “Serena was a chaotic, unrefined woman who used emotional theater to disrupt the high–society balance. She had no place among true Alpha bloodlines. Her daughter

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Talia inherits that same defective, common nature. They are people who bring nothing but scandals, weakness, and shame to a pack.

A giant, tight knot of anger twists deep inside my little stomach. The guilt I felt before turns into a solid, burning protective instinct.

Grandma Diana lied to me. But why?

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