Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 38

Chapter 37

Talia’s POV

I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch between us like a taut wire. Let him wait.

Let him wonder.

“My first condition.” My voice emerges calm, measured–the voice of someone who has already won, even if he doesn’t know it yet. “One hundred million dollars.”

His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, a tiny crack in that frozen exterior. One hundred million is significant, even for someone of his wealth. It’s not pocket change. It’s a statement.

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“For what purpose?” The question is clipped, suspicious

“For compensation.” I let the word hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. “Emotional damages. Reputational damages. Public execution damages.” I tilt my head, studying him. “I’ve been torn apart for weeks, Mr. Jones. Every platform, every conversation, every corner of the internet–all of it soaked in

hatred for me. Do you expect me to walk away with nothing while your precious Ms. Volkov admits fault and goes back to playing saint? While her fans move on to their next target, and I’m left with the

scars?”

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A beat of silence. Then: “Agreed.”

No negotiation. No hesitation. No counter–offer. Just immediate,

unconditional surrender.

For her, he’ll pay anything.

Something cold twists in my chest. Not jealousy–I’m past that. Just a weary confirmation of what I’ve always known. My worth to him, measured in the ease of this transaction.

୮

He’s still watching me, those dark eyes calculating behind their frozen surface. “Is this your goal? All of it–the secrecy, the press conference, the public spectacle 37just to extract money?”

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I could explain. I could tell him about Bernard’s studio, about building something independent, about never being financially beholden to anyone again—especially not to him. I could make him understand that this isn’t greed, it’s survival.

But he doesn’t deserve my explanations. He never has.

“If that’s how you want to see it.” My voice is flat, dismissive. Let him think what he wants. His opinion stopped mattering the moment he chose her over me in a

burning car.

He stares at me, those eyes unreadable

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but intense. “The video–it’s from your

dashcam. You’ve had evidence this entire

time.” The realization seems to hit him freshly, rearranging pieces in his mind. “You could have given it to the police immediately. Cleared your name in hours. Instead, you waited. You let this escalate. You let yourself be destroyed publicly.”

A cold smile curves my lips. “If I’d released it early, would you have paid me one hundred million dollars, Mr. Jones? Would I have gotten to watch your beloved Imema squirm, wondering if the truth would surface at any moment? Would I have seen exactly how little you’d believe me without proof?” I tilt my head, letting him see the satisfaction there. “The

experiment was… illuminating.” | • 16:12

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Something flickers in his expression- disapproval? Disgust? It’s hard to read through the ice. “You let yourself be torn apart. You endured all of that- the attacks, the threats, the mob at the hospital–for money.”

I stare at him, genuinely incredulous. The arrogance. The disconnect from reality. “You think money is trivial?” My voice sharpens. “Then empty your accounts. Walk away from your wealth. Live on nothing for a month and see how ‘unimportant‘ it feels.” I step closer, closing the distance between us. “And what else should I want, exactly? You? Should I fight for the scraps of affection from a man who leaves our bed for

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late–night calls with his ‘first love‘? Who demanded I cook for her, cater to her, serve her like a maid in my own home? Who hung up on me when I was trapped in a burning car–burning, Mr. Jones–to

rush to her side?”

His jaw tightens. Good. Let him feel it, even for a moment.

“Even if I wanted your money, which, let’s be clear, I have received none of in five years of marriage, I’d be justified.” ”

My voice drops. “She lives in a seaside villa worth nine figures. You bought it and put it in her name without hesitation. I rent a tiny apartment that I can barely afford. She’s been back six months, I’ve 6:12

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been your wife for five years. And I have nothing to show for it. No assets. No security. No home.”

His expression hardens, defensive walls rising. “Imema is dying. Why must you compete with someone who has so little time? Can’t you show any compassion?”

“Dying?” The word comes out almost as a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Are you certain about that? Have you seen test results? Spoken to her doctors directly? Verified anything beyond her word and her convenient fainting spells?”

His eyes darken dangerously. “What are you implying?”

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“I’m not implying anything.” I meet his gaze directly, unflinching. “I’m making a bet. A simple wager. Let’s see if she’s actually dead in six months. Let’s watch. Let’s wait. You’re so certain–put your certainty to the test.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Ridiculous. This is grotesque.”

“Afraid to take it? Afraid the foundation might crack?”

His voice is cold, controlled, but I hear the slight tremor beneath it. “Medicine advances constantly. Nick has found specialists. Her condition may not be as dire as initially believed. Treatment options evolve.”

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I almost laugh. The mental gymnastics. The desperate, acrobatic refusal to question anything she’s told him. What hold does she have? What spell did she cast that makes him twist himself

into knots rather than face the simplest possibility?

He shifts, uncomfortable with the direction, desperate to regain control. “Your second condition. Name it.”

I let the silence stretch, watching him squirm internally. Then: “Divorce. I want you to sign the papers. No contest. No delays. No manipulation.”

His patience finally cracks, visible fissures

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in the ice. “You wanted terms. I agreed. You wanted money. I agreed. You wanted a platform–I gave you this conversation instead of stopping you entirely. How far will you push this farce?” Disdain drips from his voice, thick and contemptuous. “Who taught you these manipulative games? What happened to the woman who used to be satisfied with simply being my wife?”

I stare at him, and for a moment, I’m genuinely speechless. Even now, standing here with evidence of her lies, with my blood on the ground outside the hospital, with weeks of public execution behind me -he still can’t see it. Can’t see me.

“Manipulative games?” My voice is quiet,12

Chapter 37

but it cuts. “You still think I’m playing, don’t you? That this is all some elaborate ploy to keep you? To win you back? To make you jealous?”

His gaze locks onto mine, confident, certain, unshakeable in his conviction.

“You love me, Talia. You’ve made that clear. In ways you don’t even realize.”

The words hit like ice water thrown

directly into my face. I freeze, my mind stuttering to a halt.

Then understanding crashes over me like a wave. Cold. Drowning. Complete.

“You read my diary.”

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Something flickers in his eyes- acknowledgment, perhaps even satisfaction. “Aeson took the wrong notebook weeks ago. When he returned it to me, I saw it. I read it. All of it.”

Five years. Five years of marriage, of hoping, of trying, of small joys before she returned and ground them to dust. Five years of private thoughts, secret wounds, fragile happiness. All of it, poured onto paper in my weakest moments. All of it, read by him.

Used by him.

He’s been so confident because he knew.

Knew I loved him, knew that it would keep me tethered no matter what he did. 12

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My own heart, my most vulnerable self, has been weaponized against me without my knowledge. He’s been holding my diary entries like cards in a game I didn’t know we were playing.

Before I can speak, before I can even process the violation, the betrayal, the sheer cruelty of it… his phone rings.

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