Hiding Me as His Luna, I Become the Luna of His Enemy

Lyra’s breath caught. Her eyes widened as she stared at Darius, disbelief freezing her in place. She couldn’t comprehend that he’d said those words—so easily, so cruelly.

And yet, there was no hint of guilt in his eyes. The man she once shared a life with now looked at her like a judge delivering a sentence.

“You’ve really disappointed me, Lyra.” His tone was calm, almost cold. Then his gaze shifted toward Mireille, who was curled against him like a wounded bird. “You drugged her. Whatever happens after this—it’s your fault.”

As his arm tightened around her, Mireille’s fingers trailed idly over his chest. Her eyes flicked up to meet Lyra’s—taunting, amused.

Lyra’s knees trembled. She clutched the edge of the table, forcing herself to stay upright. When she finally spoke, her voice came out laced with mockery.

“You actually think I drugged her just so you—” her finger shook as she pointed at him “—could be the antidote?”

Her voice grew steady, sharp. “There are plenty of ways to neutralize drugs, Darius. This,” she gestured at the scene before her, “was never one of them.”

“Darius…” Mireille’s soft voice broke in, trembling just enough to sound sincere. Her nails grazed the bandaged cut on her arm, opening it slightly so a drop of red rolled down. “Don’t worry about me. Let me handle this myself.”

She tilted her head, her next words angled sweetly toward Lyra. “And please don’t blame her. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. She just… loves you too much.”

Something in Lyra snapped. She’d already decided to leave Darius, but that didn’t mean she would let Mireille disgrace her in her own home.

“My God, Mireille—do you even have any shame left? You’re clinging to my mate in my house, pretending to be some innocent victim. Did your lover forget to teach you manners?”

The sound that followed was sharp and immediate—Slap!

Lyra’s head snapped to the side. Her cheek stung.

“Enough, Lyra!” Darius roared. “Mireille hasn’t spoken a single bad word about you and yet you keep spitting venom! You disgust me!”

He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled, gasping as he dragged her toward the door.

“You like drugging people, huh? Then stand here and listen to what that leads to!”

He tore the tie from his neck, bound her wrists to the doorknob and tightened the knot until metal bit into her skin.

His eyes were ice when he said, “You brought this on yourself. Don’t blame me—or her.”

The door slammed shut.

At first came silence. Then a sound—a soft groan. A breath. Then another. The rhythm built, unmistakable, unrelenting.

Lyra shut her eyes. Tears slipped silently at first, but eventually, even those dried up. All that was left was a hollow ache spreading through her chest.

Every moan from inside the room hammered another nail into the coffin of her love.

‘This is what happens when you love the wrong man,’ she thought bitterly.

Then pain struck deep in her abdomen. A sharp, twisting ache that sent her to her knees. The cords cut into her wrists, her body hanging from the door handle, drenched in cold sweat.

Her lips moved, but her voice came out barely a whisper. Compared to the pleasure-filled sounds beyond the door, her faint gasps were nothing—completely drowned out.

The night dragged on, each second longer than the last.

When the door finally opened, dawn light spilled in.

Darius stood there, adjusting his sleeve, his voice calm as ever. “Have you learned your lesson?”

No answer.

He frowned and looked down—Lyra lay motionless at his feet.

“Lyra?” He crouched, pressed a hand to her cheek—hot as fire. Panic flickered in his eyes.

He lifted her into his arms, about to rush out.

“Darius.” Mireille’s voice drifted lazily from the bed. “You were a bit rough last night. I think something’s swollen. And… I can’t exactly ask anyone else to help with that, can I?”

No response.

She continued, “Lyra used to get fevers all the time back in college. Just take her to the hospital. Let the maid handle it.”

Then, with a sigh, “And you know my reputation. If gossip spreads, people will talk. I can’t afford that.”

Lyra’s lashes trembled. Her vision was blurry, her body numb—but she saw it.

She saw Darius hesitate.

She saw him turn.

And then she felt herself being handed off to someone else’s arms.

Darkness followed.

When she opened her eyes again, everything was white. White sheets. White walls.

The steady beeping of a heart monitor.

“Ma’am,” the doctor said gently, “you’re about three months pregnant. But the baby isn’t stable. You should—”

“Doctor,” Lyra interrupted, her voice hoarse but firm. “I don’t want the baby. Schedule the abortion.”

The doctor blinked, taken aback. “There’s no medical necessity to terminate—”

Her next words cut him short.

“My mate cheated. We’re divorced. That’s reason enough. Please schedule it. Today.”

The doctor exhaled slowly. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed back. “Understood. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

Once he left, Lyra reached for her communicator and typed a message.

[A month’s too long. Three days. Come get me in three days.]

She hit send.