There was nothing humorous about this.
Violently, she shook her head back and forth, begging now with her eyes, but they ignored her still and marched up the stairs.
Her heart pounded. She kicked and bucked at every step, locking her legs, forcing them to drag her. She had to delay this; she had to buy herself time.
Haven’t I suffered enough lies and heartache?
Upstairs, the scent of cinnamon and warm oats clung to the air. The table was set like a memory Luna never got to have. Sunlight slanted through the windows, fruit were sliced into delicate spirals, and steam rose from a bowl of oatmeal.
And at the center of it all sather.
Luna’s breath caught.
Not Nina.Her.
Only it wasn’t her anymore.
She hadn’t seen her own reflection in weeks. Not since before the camp, before everything broke.
Her skin, once pale from a life spent beneath umbrellas, was now sun-kissed and glowed with a healthy tan.
But the rest—skies—the rest.
Her cheeks had hollowed. Deep shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes, making them look sunken and tired. The blue of her irises—once bright, full of light—had dulled, like someone had snuffed out whatever spark had been there before.
She looked as broken as her soul felt.
Her once-pristine skin was marred with thin, silvery scars and memories of shackles, of loss, and of hands that didn’t let go. There was something wrong in the way her shoulders curled inward, like she was bracing for pain . . . as if she didn’t believe she was safe here, even now.
Luna stared, heart pounding. That was her body. Her torment. Her survival.
And her mother wore it like a costume.
Luna staggered, the breath rushing from her lungs. “Damien—” she rasped, eyes darting. He wasn’t here, but of course he wasn’t.
Nina didn’t even flinch under her gaze. She simply looked up from her bowl and blinked slowly, as if she hadn’t stolen everything. As if she wasn’t wearing Luna’s face.
For a heartbeat, her eyes skimmed past Luna without recognition, as if she, too, were noticing the changes her own body had undergone in the last few weeks.
Then she smiled.
Not kindly. Not with guilt, nor even shame.
But with the quiet satisfaction of someone who’d won.
Gregory’s hand tightened on Luna’s arm as Marion stepped in behind. And just like that, Nina dropped the smile.
“Oh,” she whispered, spoon clattering into her bowl. “Is this . . . It’s really happening?” Her voice broke and tears filled her eyes, like this washernightmare instead of Luna’s.
Luna snapped.
She screamed into the cloth and lunged forward, struggling against Gregory’s tight hold on her, but she only made it a step or two.
“Please don’t struggle,” Nina said, voice cracking perfectly. “It only makes it harder on me.” She rose, stepping closer, as if debating whether to embrace Luna or hold back.
But Luna knew better, there was nothing warm about her mother, this was all for show.
Unshed tears shined in Nina’s eyes as she glanced at Marion, then Gregory, and finally Corey. Whatever she saw in their faces made her lips tremble. “There’s nothing else that can be done.” She shook her head, as if in defeat. “You have to accept your fate.”
