His Luna Wore Knockoffs

I woke up on Margot's yoga mat with a crick in my neck and the taste of regret in my mouth. The Pilates reformer loomed above me like some medieval torture device, which felt appropriate given my current circumstances.

My phone had been buzzing nonstop for the past hour. Forty-seven missed calls, two hundred and thirteen text messages, and notifications that kept climbing like a slot machine jackpot I definitely hadn't won.

The first thing I saw when I unlocked the screen was Kieran's Instagram story from last night. The thumbnail showed him and Odette on my balcony, arms wrapped around each other like they were posing for a engagement announcement. The view counter had hit 15,000.

"Jesus," Margot's voice came from the kitchen, sharp with her usual morning caffeine withdrawal. "Your phone sounds like a casino floor."

I scrolled through the notifications with growing horror. Someone had screenshot my old profile picture and turned it into a meme. The image showed me at last year's pack barbecue, smiling next to Kieran, with text overlay reading: "When the Beta upgraded his mate 💀." It had been shared eighty-three times in the Crescent Ridge pack's private Facebook group.

Eighty-three times.

"Margot," I called out, my voice cracking slightly. "I think I'm going viral. And not in a good way."

She appeared in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee, her red curls still messy from sleep. Margot was human, which meant she didn't fully understand pack dynamics, but she had an uncanny ability to cut through bullshit with surgical precision.

"Show me," she said, settling cross-legged on the hardwood floor beside me.

I handed her my phone. Her expression shifted from curious to murderous as she scrolled through the comments on the meme post.

"'Finally, someone with actual breeding,'" she read aloud, her voice dripping with disgust. "'Poor Kieran, having to pretend for so long.' What the actual fuck is wrong with these people?"

My phone buzzed with an incoming call. The contact name made my stomach drop: *Romano's Ristorante - Marcus*.

Marcus Romano owned three upscale restaurants in the pack territory and had been my biggest freelance client for the past two years. His account alone covered my rent.

"Wren," his voice was carefully neutral when I answered. "I hope you're doing well given the... circumstances."

"Marcus, hi. Yes, I'm—"

"Listen, I hate to do this over the phone, but considering the situation with you and Beta Kieran, we're going to need to put our design projects on hold. Indefinitely."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Marcus, my personal life doesn't affect my work quality. The new menu designs are almost finished—"

"It's not about quality, Wren. It's about... optics. You understand."

I understood perfectly. In pack hierarchy, being publicly discarded by a Beta was social suicide. No one wanted to be associated with damaged goods.

"I'll send you the final invoice for work completed," I managed to say.

"Actually, given that the project won't be moving forward, we'll just call it even for now. Take care of yourself."

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, processing what had just happened. Kieran hadn't just kicked me out of our apartment—he was systematically destroying my ability to survive.

Margot was watching me with the expression she usually reserved for her most scathing Substack posts about toxic masculinity. "What just happened?"

"I just lost my biggest client." I pulled up my banking app with trembling fingers. "And I have exactly three hundred and forty dollars to my name."

"Okay." Margot's voice shifted into problem-solving mode. She grabbed her laptop from the coffee table and opened what looked like a military-grade Notion workspace. "Let's make a list. What assets do you have that we can liquidize?"

We spent the next hour creating what Margot dubbed our "Nuclear Emergency Inventory." The results were depressing: a few pieces of jewelry worth maybe $200 total, some designer clothes that might fetch $150 on Poshmark, and a vintage camera I couldn't bear to part with.

"You need a lawyer," Margot said, typing furiously.

"The lawyer I need costs more than my entire net worth," I replied, slumping against the reformer. "Pack law is specialized. The good ones charge five hundred an hour just to return your calls."

My phone rang again. Unknown number, 912 area code. Savannah.

I'd ignored this same number yesterday, but something made me answer this time.

"Ms. Whitfield?" The voice was crisp, professional, with a slight Southern accent. "This is Elena Vasquez from the Lyall Bloodline Registry. We spoke yesterday about your bond activation."

"I think there's been a mistake," I said quickly. "I was never bonded as a child. That's not how—"

"According to our records, the ceremony was performed on October 31st, 2002, by Eleanor Whitfield. Both parties were minors, which is why the bond remained dormant until now." Papers rustled in the background. "Ms. Whitfield, under the Cross-Pack Bloodline Treaty, Article Seven, the unilateral activation of a childhood mate-bond requires your personal confirmation or rejection. The activating party is... Stellan Lyall."

The name hit me like ice water.

StellaN.

Margot was watching me with growing concern as my face went white. I mouthed "give me a minute" and walked to her tiny balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind me.

"Ms. Whitfield? Are you still there?"

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, I'm here."

StellaN Lyall. The boy from next door at Grandma Eleanor's house. Six years old with dark hair and serious gray eyes, who'd held my hand during one of Grandma's strange ceremonies on Halloween night. I'd thought it was just another one of her eccentric games—lighting candles, speaking words in a language I didn't understand, making us promise to "always find each other."

He'd disappeared when we were fourteen. One day he was there, helping me fix my bike chain, and the next day his house was empty. No goodbye, no forwarding address, nothing.

"Ms. Whitfield, this is a legally binding matter. You have seventy-two hours to respond."

I hung up and immediately opened Google with shaking fingers. "Stellan Lyall" in the search bar.

The results were almost nonexistent. No LinkedIn profile, no Instagram, no Facebook. Just a single mention in a three-year-old Forbes article about "Private Family Holdings in the New Economy." The Lyall Group managed an undisclosed portfolio estimated to be worth... the number had so many zeros I had to count them twice.

Lyall. I should have remembered what that name meant in the wolf world.

"Wren!" Margot's voice was sharp with urgency. "You need to see this. Now."

I rushed back inside. She was holding her phone up, Kieran's Instagram open on the screen.

A new post, uploaded twenty minutes ago. Kieran and Odette at what looked like the pack's monthly Moon Gathering, the formal event where important announcements were made. Odette wore a silver dress that caught the light like liquid mercury, and Kieran's arm was possessively wrapped around her waist.

The caption read: "Proud to introduce my TRUE Luna to the pack. 🌙 Some bonds were never real."

Two hundred and forty-seven likes. Fifty-three comments, all congratulations and heart-eye emojis.

I scrolled through them with morbid fascination. "Finally!" "She's perfect for you!" "About time you found your real mate!"

My name had been completely erased from the pack's official social media accounts. Four years of my life, deleted like I'd never existed.

"That bastard," Margot breathed. "That absolute piece of shit."

I stared at the screen, watching the like count climb higher. In the pack world, this wasn't just a relationship announcement—it was a public execution. Kieran was making sure everyone knew that what we'd had was fake, temporary, a mistake he'd finally corrected.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: *"Wren, this is Stellan. We need to talk."*