Neglected Luna: Her White Wolf Rises

When I walked through the front door, the house smelled of garlic and rosemary. Anthony was in the kitchen, wearing one of my aprons over his expensive shirt, stirring a pot of pasta sauce. A portrait of domestic solicitude. The perfect, caring husband, home from his "meeting" to tend to his ailing wife.

"Hey, you're back," he said, his face a mask of gentle concern. "I was just about to call. Are you feeling any better?"

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and rushed to my side, placing the back of his hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever. His touch was revolting.

"A little," I murmured, stepping back. "I just went for a short walk to get some air."

"You should be resting," he chided softly. "I made your favorite, arrabbiata, just the way you like it, with extra spice. And I opened that bottle of Barolo you've been saving. Go sit down. I'll bring you a plate."

He was a phenomenal actor. A true artist of deceit. He moved around the kitchen with an easy, practiced grace, every gesture calculated to broadcast his devotion. If I had not seen what I had seen, if I had not heard what I had heard, I would have believed him. My heart would have melted at this display of affection.

Now, it felt like watching a stranger perform a play for an audience of one.

He brought me a glass of wine, his brow furrowed with just the right amount of worry. "You really scared me, Alex. You need to take better care of yourself. Maybe you're working too hard."

I sipped the wine, the rich, dark liquid doing nothing to warm the knot of ice in my stomach.

After a few minutes, he dried his hands and said, "I'm just going to pop up and check on Jake. Be right back."

I waited until I heard his footsteps recede down the upstairs hall. Then, silent as a shadow, I followed. I stopped just outside Jacob's partially open bedroom door, pressing myself flat against the wall, straining to hear.

"Hey, buddy. How was the studying?" Anthony's voice was casual, paternal.

"Fine," Jacob mumbled, the sound of a video game controller clicking furiously in the background. "Did you have fun at your 'meeting'?"

There was a smirk in my son's voice that made my stomach clench.

Anthony chuckled, a low, conspiratorial sound. "It was… productive. Had to cut it short, though. Your mom had one of her episodes."

One of her episodes. The phrase struck me with the force of a physical blow, reducing my manufactured panic to a recurring, inconvenient drama.

"Seriously?" Jacob sounded annoyed. "Is she okay?" The question was perfunctory, devoid of any real concern.

"She's fine. Just needed some attention," Anthony said dismissively. "You know how she gets. Anyway, how's my favorite counselor?"

The casualness of it, the way he dropped her name into conversation with our son, was breathtakingly arrogant.

Jacob laughed. "Katia? She's awesome. Way cooler than Mrs. Albright. At least Katia's not, like, a hundred years old."

A direct hit. And it came from my own son.

"She's something, isn't she?" Anthony's voice was laced with a smug pride.

"Dad, just a heads-up," Jacob said, his tone shifting. "I think Mom knows something's up. She was asking me weird questions about girls and stuff the other day. I think she saw that text on the iPad."

My son. My son had seen the text and his first instinct was to protect his father's affair.

“Don’t worry about it,” Anthony said, his voice smooth as silk. “Your mom saw a text, but she has no idea who it's from. She’s probably thinking it’s some spam message or a wrong number. She doesn't suspect a thing. Women like your mother… they prefer to believe the cupboards clean themselves and the bills pay themselves. It’s easier than looking under the rug to see how much filth is hidden there.”

The truth. The truth was that my husband and my son were sitting in a room together, casually dissecting my weaknesses, mocking my love, and admiring the woman who was helping them destroy our family.

"She's just so… boring, Dad," Jacob said, and the cruelty in his voice was a physical blow. "Always working on her little design projects, making her healthy dinners. Katia's fun. She's hot. Why don't you just leave Mom and be with her? It would be way better."

There it was. The deepest betrayal. Not just complicity, but a desire for my replacement.

Anthony sighed, a sound of faux-dignity. "It's not that simple, Jake. Your mother is a good woman. A good mother. She… she takes care of things."

He was defending me. But it was not out of love or loyalty. He was defending an asset. A household manager. An appliance that kept the machinery of his perfect life running smoothly.

"Whatever," Jacob scoffed. "I'm just saying. Katia would be a way cooler stepmom."

I could not hear anymore. I felt dizzy, my vision tunneling. I stumbled back from the door, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a sob. I made it to our master bathroom just as my stomach revolted, and I threw up the expensive wine and the bitter taste of their conspiracy into the pristine white porcelain of the toilet.

I was on my hands and knees, shaking, when Anthony found me.

"Alex! Oh my god, honey, what is it?" He was by my side in an instant, his hands fluttering around me, trying to touch my back, to smooth my hair.

"Don't touch me," I spat, the words raw and guttural.

He froze, his hands hovering in the air. "What… what's wrong? Alex, you're scaring me."

I pushed myself up, my body trembling with a rage so profound it felt like it could split my skin. I shoved him away, my palm connecting with his chest with more force than I knew I possessed.

"Get out," I rasped. "Just… get out. I need to be alone."

Confusion and fear warred on his handsome face. He saw not a partner in pain, but a problem he could not immediately solve. "Alex, please, talk to me. We've been so happy. I don't understand."

Happy. The word was a mockery.

"I just need some space," I said, my voice eerily calm now. I was looking at him, but I was seeing the stage at the Architectural Guild Awards ceremony. The grand ballroom, the massive screens on either side of the stage, the hundreds of faces—his partners, his clients, the city's elite.

He looked genuinely terrified. He probably thought I was having a breakdown. In a way, I was. A breaking through.

"Okay," he said, backing away slowly, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Okay, whatever you need. I'm sorry. I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry." He sounded so sincere. A master of his craft.

He paused at the doorway, his face etched with worry. "The Guild Awards are next Friday," he said softly. "It's the biggest night of my career. I need you there, Alex. We're supposed to… I was going to toast to us. To our twenty years." He was trying to recenter the narrative, to pull me back into the script.

He was going to toast to us. The irony was so thick I could have choked on it.

A cold, brilliant clarity began to descend upon the ruins of my life. A toast. A celebration. A public declaration.

He was right. It was the perfect stage.

I looked up at him, my expression softening. I let a single, calculated tear roll down my cheek. "You're right," I whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm just… overwhelmed. Of course, I'll be there. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Relief washed over his face, so pure and complete it was almost comical. He had his appliance back in working order. The crisis was averted.

He smiled, that charming, devastating smile. "That's my girl."

He came toward me, to hug me, to seal the deal.

I held up a hand. "Just… give me a few minutes, okay?"

He nodded, respecting my "fragile" state. As he left the room, closing the door softly behind him, I met my own eyes in the mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger. Her eyes were not filled with tears, but with the hard, glittering light of a diamond. The light of a blade being sharpened.

The awards ceremony. His biggest night.

It was going to be a night to remember. I was going to give him a tribute he would never forget.