Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 56

Chapter 55

Talia’s POV

I wait in the stairwell for over half an hour, pressed against cold concrete, listening for footsteps that don’t come. My legs ache. My lungs burn from breathing recycled air. But I wait. Because the alternative is running into him, and I can’t do that. Not yet. Not after what I just heard.

When I’m certain he’s gone–when the silence stretches long enough to feel safe -I finally descend.

The first floor hums with hospital activity. Orderlies push gurneys. Visitors clutch16:21

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flowers and worried expressions. I’m heading for the exit when two nurses pass me, carrying something familiar.

My feet stop.

That coat. My coat. The one I designed. The one I spent months perfecting- selecting the fabric, stitching the lining, embroidering his initials inside the collar where no one would see but him. For his birthday, two years ago. The first real gift I’d given him after years of trying to find something that might matter.

“Can you believe it?” one nurse says to the other, holding the coat between them like garbage. “Rich people are something else. Gets a little stain on it and just throws it:21

Chapter 55

away.”

The other laughs. “With his money? He could burn a dozen coats a day and not

notice.”

“Still, this is quality. If Ms. Volkov hadn’t told us to bin it, I’d keep it for myself.”

“Forget it. Their trash isn’t meant for the likes of us.”

They drop it into an industrial bin. The lid clangs shut with terrible finality.

I wait until they’re gone, until their laughter fades into the hospital’s constant murmur. Then I cross to the bin. Open it. Reach in.

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The coat is warm. Still holds the shape of his shoulders. Still smells faintly of him

-that cedar and smoke scent I used to bury my face in, back when I believed in us. Back when that kiss made me think

maybe, finally, he was starting to see me.

My fingers curl into the fabric until my knuckles go white.

She told them to throw it away. Not clean it. Not return it to him. Throw it away.

And he let her.

୮

The coat that witnessed the only real

moment I ever had with him–reduced to

hospital trash by a woman playing house with my husband.

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Chapter 55

Richard lied to me. I stop waiting for his updates after that. If Aires has Electra— and everything I’ve seen confirms it—then Richard either couldn’t find the truth or

chose not to share it. Either way, I’m done depending on others.

The next morning, I go to Jones Group headquarters.

The building looms over the city center, all glass and steel and intimidating wealth. I’ve been here before, years ago, back when I still believed being Mrs. Perseus meant something. Back when I thought the title carried weight.

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I walk through the revolving doors into a lobby that could double as a museum. Marble floors. Abstract art. The soft hum

of money.

I head for the elevators.

“Excuse me!”

Two receptionists intercept me before I’ve taken ten steps. Their smiles are professionally pleasant, but their eyes are already cataloging–my clothes, my bag, my face. Deciding if I belong.

One of them, tall with sleek dark hair, tilts her head. “Miss, who are you here to see?”

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“Aires Perseus.”

་་

The glance they exchange is quick but loaded. The shorter one speaks, her smile tightening. “And what business do you

have with Mr. Perseus?”

“Personal.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I don’t. I also don’t have time for this

dance. “I’m his wife. I need to see him.”

The silence that follows is loud enough to echo off the marble.

The tall one recovers first, but her smile has sharpened into something else, “I’m 22

Chapter 55

sorry. We don’t recognize you.”

Of course they don’t. Five years of marriage, and I’m a stranger in my husband’s building. A ghost in my own life.

The shorter one crosses her arms, emboldened by her colleague’s confidence. “Mr. Perseus has strict instructions. No appointments, no entry. If you’re really Mrs. Perseus, you can call him. We’re just following protocol.”

Fine. I pull out my phone. Dial his

number.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

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Voicemail.

I try again. Same result.

The receptionists‘ expressions shift from professional skepticism to open contempt. They don’t bother hiding it

now.

The tall one snorts, loud enough for me to hear. “Mrs. Perseus can’t reach Mr. Perseus. That’s rich.”

The shorter one joins in, her voice carrying that particular sneer reserved for women they’ve decided are beneath them. “The audacity. Pretending to be his wife?”

“Probably another one with ‘ideas.‘ They 22

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get bolder every year.”

“I’ve seen plenty try to get to him, but claiming to be Mrs. Jones? That’s a new

low.”

Their words are knives, but I’ve been cut by sharper blades. I don’t flinch.

“Is he in his office?” I ask calmly.

The tall one’s smile turns razor–thin. “Company policy. We don’t disclose executive whereabouts to outsiders.”

The shorter one snickers. “If you’re really his wife, wouldn’t you know if he’s here?”

I look at them. At their matching |

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uniforms, their matching disdain, their matching certainty that they’re better than the woman begging for access to her own husband. They’ve decided I’m nothing. A groupie. A delusional fan. A woman with ideas above her station.

I don’t leave. I walk to the lobby sofa and

sit.

Their murmurs continue, pitched just loud enough to reach me,

“You should go. He won’t see you.”

୮

“Honestly, some women have no shame.”

“If you don’t leave now, we’ll call

security.”

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Chapter 55

“Hurry up and get out before we make you.”

I let them exhaust themselves. They’re following rules–barely. But this has crossed into personal. They’ve made it clear they see me as a threat, a joke, a nothing. Their professionalism is a mask, and it’s slipping.

Finally, I turn my head. My voice carries across the marble.

୮

“Is this the professional standard at Jones

Group?”

They freeze.

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I pull out my phone, camera aimed directly at them. “I wonder what the headline would be if this footage reached the media. ‘Receptionists at Perseus Corporation Harass Visitor with Vulgar Remarks.‘ ‘Employee Conduct Reflects Corporate Culture–or Lack Thereof.“”

Their faces drain of color.

“Imagine the stock dip,” I continue, my voice pleasant, conversational. “The board meetings. The damage contról. The PR teams scrambling to explain why two receptionists decided their personal judgments outweighed professional

conduct.”

The tall one’s mouth opens and closes. No

Chapter 55

sound comes out.

The short one looks like she might be physically ill.

They know. They know exactly how replaceable they are. How quickly this company would sacrifice them to protect its precious image. How one video, one viral moment, could end their careers and blacklist them from every decent job in the city.

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