Switched Bride, True Luna - Chapter 53: Chapter 53

Emily
The ride back from Silverroot Sanctuary was quiet. I sat beside Logan in the backseat, tucked into the far corner with my coat draped across my lap and fingers curled around a cooling paper cup of herbal tea.
The scent was faintly sweet—lavender and something earthy I couldn’t name—and it lingered in the small space between us.
Outside the window, the woods rolled past in streaks of deep green and fading gold. I let my eyes follow them, but I could feel him even when I didn’t look.
His presence was weighty, certain, and too close for me to pretend I didn’t notice.
At one point, the road curved, and the shift in momentum made our shoulders brush. I didn’t move away. Neither did he.
I told myself it didn’t have to mean anything. That proximity was not intimacy. That we were only sitting like this because we’d agreed to make a public appearance, and now it was done.
But my body didn’t believe me.
It remembered the way Logan had stood beside me while we’d walked the paths between moonstones and healing pools.
My mind replayed how he’d watched me with something close to reverence when I spoke with the sanctuary’s staff. Recalled that he didn’t flinch when I spoke openly about dormancy to the reporters gathered near the press arch.
And I’d wanted him there. Not as my Alpha. Not even as my contracted fiancé.
Just Logan.
My fingers clenched tighter around the cup.
I hated that it felt this easy. I hated even more that part of me wanted to believe it could stay this way.
At some point, I glanced at Logan. He was looking down at his phone, reading something with his usual intensity, brow furrowed and jaw set. But then he caught me watching and looked up.
His gaze softened instantly.
“Do you want to stop and get food?” he asked, voice quiet. “You barely touched lunch.”
I hesitated. Shook my head. I felt too… something to eat. He didn’t push. Just nodded, eyes flicking down to my hands. “Your tea’s cold.”
“I like it that way.”
“Of course you do,” he said, a smile touching the corner of his mouth.
And gods help me, I smiled back.
When we arrived back home, Logan exited the car first and extended a hand to help me out. I took it without thinking. His fingers were warm against mine, steady and solid.
As soon as I was on my feet, I let go. And immediately missed his touch.
“Thanks,” I said, already stepping past him toward the front door.
He didn’t follow right away. Maybe he was letting me have space. Or maybe he needed it too.
In my suite, I set down my coat and set the now-empty tea cup on the table. I stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing, listening to the silence settle around me like a warm blanket.
It had been a good day, objectively.
Public support had grown. The sanctuary visit was praised. The press had taken dozens of photos that didn’t make me look fragile or tragic.
And yet, I didn’t feel settled.
I felt exposed.
Because for the first time since this arrangement started, I’d wanted something from Logan that had nothing to do with strategy.
I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to want me back. And that terrified me more than anything Chloe or my stepmother could ever do.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and dragged the throw blanket over my legs.
This didn’t feel like pretending anymore. And that… was a recipe for heartbreak. But that felt like a later problem.
Tonight I wanted to sit in the hope and calm just a little longer.
That night I slept better than I had in weeks. I was halfway through my second cup of coffee—real coffee, strong enough wake an elephant—when my phone pinged with a post I’d been tagged in.
I didn’t mean to look. But my name was in bold: “Alpha’s Optics: Contract Luna’s Public Redemption Tour”
Below the headline, a photo from the sanctuary outing was centered like a glossy insult. I stood beside Logan in the image, slightly turned toward him, hand mid-gesture. He wasn’t even looking at me—his gaze was on something distant, his expression was cold.
If someone had asked me before that moment, I would’ve said it had been a good day. That something real had passed between us.
Now I couldn’t breathe.
The mug slipped from my fingers, splashing coffee across the table before I managed to catch it. I swore under my breath and moved quickly to clean up the spill.
I left the kitchen and walked straight to my rooms, slamming the door behind me with more force than I meant to. My hands trembled as I paced the room.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I knew what the media did. I’d lived through worse headlines when Michael and Chloe paraded their betrayal around the Packs.
But this…this felt different.
This wasn’t just about shame. It was about being reduced again. Again. To a headline. A story. A punchline. Optics.
Like I was a charity case paraded in front of the cameras for show. Like Logan had taken me to the sanctuary because I was broken and needed fixing.
Not because I wanted to share a piece of me with him. Not because he’d seen something in me worth standing beside.
Not because I mattered.
My breath came faster now, shallow and angry. I opened my tablet and scrolled, searching for damage control, for clarity, for something that would make it sting less.
But the story had spread.
One outlet quoted a “close source” from my Pack who claimed I was “leaning heavily on Titanfang’s image to make up for years of instability.” Another speculated I’d “used Logan’s sympathy” to gain the sanctuary spotlight.
My jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
I’d worked so hard to stand on my own.
Every report I filed. Every number I’d triple-checked. Every time I spoke openly about my dormancy.
And now it was all reduced to optics.
I thought of Logan, how he hadn’t hesitated to offer me his arm in front of the cameras. How he’d watched me, not like I was broken, but like I was something worth admiring.
How his voice had gone quiet when I spoke to the young girl at the sanctuary who asked me if wolves without shifts could still be strong.
He’d seen that moment. He’d felt it.
And now… now I didn’t know what was real.
I dropped the tablet on the desk and leaned against the window, forehead pressing to the cool glass.
I am not weak. I repeated the words like a mantra.
But inside, it didn’t feel strong in that moment. It felt like drowning in the same shame I’d thought I’d escaped.
My mind went back to being sixteen, standing at a Pack bonfire while the others shifted effortlessly and I sat on the sidelines pretending I didn’t care.
Back to Chloe whispering at a school dance, loud enough for everyone to hear, “She’s just defective. It’s sad, really.”
The articles didn’t feel new. They felt like history repeating, sharpening its teeth all over again.
There was a knock at the door. A pause. I assumed Logan had seen the articles with mixed reviews.
But right now, I just needed to be alone.
Eventually, his footsteps retreated.
I stayed at the window, watching the sun creep over the distant trees, lighting up the grass in pale gold.
Because suddenly, all I could think about was how easy it was for people to believe I was lucky to have been chosen.
Even when I’d spent my whole life proving I was worth more than that.