The Luna Who Pretended To Be Broken

"Alright, best of luck with the checkup," I murmured, turning my wheelchair to leave.

"Hold up!" Georgina called out suddenly, halting me. "Did you press that floral Victorian-style dress for me? I want to wear it today."

That dress was originally mine—or, to be specific, it was a birthday gift from Beta Kareem. But now, like everything else, it had been claimed by her. Just as she had claimed my mate, my home, my entire life.

I clenched my jaw. "Yes, it's ironed. It's hanging in your closet."

She nodded, pleased, and pulled Beta Kareem towards the bedroom. "Beta Kareem, come help me pick out the shoes that go with this dress."

He trailed after her without a glance back at me. Only when their figures vanished behind the bedroom door did I let myself take a shaky breath.

I wheeled myself slowly to the kitchen, where I mechanically prepared a solitary breakfast, their laughter from the bedroom sounding like a cruel echo. As I chopped fruit, each slice felt like another blow to my already shattered heart.

Once, I was the one who had Beta Kareem's affection. He used to bring me breakfast in bed, pick me up when I worked late, surprise me on every anniversary.

When had he become so heartless, so ruthless? Why would he have to ruin me just to have an affair?

"Amina, what are you doing? The pot’s about to boil over!" Beta Kareem’s voice broke my thoughts. My hand jerked, spilling hot water onto my leg.

Anyone else would have cried out from the pain, but I didn’t react. My legs had no feeling.

Beta Kareem glanced at the mess with a look of cold disdain. "Can't you be more careful? You're always making a mess in the kitchen. Clean it up! Georgina and I are heading out."

"Okay," I forced a smile. "You two enjoy yourselves, take care."

He nodded, then paused before leaving. "By the way, Georgina's been pretty emotional since she got pregnant. Try to be more understanding."

I nodded silently, my nails digging into my palms.

Beta Kareem seemed satisfied, gave me a quick kiss on the forehead—a gesture that once made my heart skip a beat but now only left me cold.

As he turned to leave, I watched him until the front door closed with a definitive click. As soon as it shut, I pulled out the phone hidden beneath me.

There it was: a message from overseas. "Delta Amina, your surgery is scheduled for three days from now. Please arrive on time."

I clutched the phone tightly. Just three more days, and I'd be free from this nightmare.