The True Luna's Forbidden Temptation - Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Analise.
I freeze, my body turning to ice despite the heat between us. The name hangs in the air, like an uninvited guest in our bed. I pull back, searching his face in the dim light. His eyes are half-closed, clouded with desire and whatever alcohol he had been drinking.
"Who's Rainie?" My voice sounds strange, disconnected from my body.
Tyler blinks, confusion washing over his features before something else takes its place. Something that looks too much like guilt.
"W-what?" He pulls away. "What do you mean? I didn't say anything."
"Yes, you did. You said 'Rainie.' Who is she?" My heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped animal.
His expression hardens, the softness from moments before vanishing completely. "You're hearing things. I didn't say any name."
"I know what I heard, Tyler." My voice trembles, betraying me. "You whispered her name. Rainie. Who the hell is she?"
He runs his fingers through his hair. "Jesus, this is ridiculous. I'm drunk, okay? If I mumbled something, don’t dwell too much into it! It’s not a name, probably not even a proper word!”
"Do you think I'm stupid, Tyler?" The words come out sharper than I intended, cutting through the tense air.
Tyler scrubs a hand over his face, his jaw clenched tight. "I think you're being paranoid. Making up problems where there aren't any." He turns away, heading towards the bathroom. "You’ve totally killed the mood!”
"Tyler—"
"Drop it." He says, raising his voice.
The bathroom door closes with a decisive click. Seconds later, water rushes through the pipes, the shower turning on. He's washing away the moment, washing away my touch.
I sit in the middle of our bed, sheet clutched to my chest, feeling the slow collapse of something I thought was solid.
The sound of the shower fills the silence, but can't drown out the echo of that name in my head.
Rainie.
Who is she? A coworker? An old flame? Someone new?
My hand drifts to my stomach, to the barely-there swell that holds our future.
My baby.
Still my secret, something precious I’ve been keeping to myself.
The doctor said I shouldn’t stress myself too much. It’s a sensitive pregnancy. But right now, I can’t help feeling upset.
I close eyes, remembering the times that Tyler had been disappointed when I came home with a negative pregnancy test after a doctor’s appointment.
Was it all a lie?
The shower turns off. I watch the bathroom door, waiting. When Tyler emerges, a towel wrapped around his waist, he doesn't look at me. His movements are mechanical as he pulls on a pair of boxers, his back a wall between us.
"Can we talk about this?" I ask, my voice small in the darkness.
"There's nothing to talk about." He slides into bed, his body rigid, keeping to his side. "I'm tired. I have an early meeting tomorrow."
"Tyler, please—"
"Goodnight, Analise." He reaches over and turns off his lamp, plunging his side of the room into darkness.
I sit there, the sheet pooled around my waist, staring at his back. The curve of his shoulder, once so inviting, now looks like a mountain I can't climb.
I want to reach out, to place my palm against his skin, to make him turn and face me. But something stops me—pride, maybe. Or fear of what I might see in his eyes.
With shaky legs, I walk towards the bathroom. Once inside, alone, I let the tears come. They slide silently down my cheeks. I cradle my belly again, seeking comfort from the life growing inside me.
"It's okay," I whisper, so quietly not even the night can hear. "It's just a mistake. He's drunk. It doesn't mean anything."
But the knot in my chest tells a different story.
Morning light filters through the curtains, harsh and unforgiving. I reach across the bed, finding cold sheets where Tyler should be.
He's already gone.
‘No goodbye? No kiss?’
Did he even remember what yesterday was? Our anniversary?
I sit up too quickly, and the room spins. The nausea hits me like a wave, and I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
Morning sickness—a misnomer if there ever was one, since it strikes at all hours.
I kneel on the cool tile, emptying what little is in my stomach, then rest my forehead against the ceramic wall of the bathroom.
"Rainie," I whisper, testing the name on my tongue. It tastes bitter. Or maybe that's just the bile.
I wash my face and brush my teeth, avoiding my reflection. I don't want to see the shadows under my eyes, the worry and pain that are embossed on my features. Instead, I focus on getting ready. I'm already running late.
Since I’m still feeling a bit sick, I decide to commute.
The train is crowded, bodies pressed together in the morning rush. I stand holding the pole, one hand protectively over my stomach, though there's nothing to see yet beneath my loose blouse.
I check my watch.
‘I’m going to be so late!’
Not that it really matters. From the beginning, Tyler and I agreed that I am in-charge of my working hours. Flexible timing, since I usually work after hours anyway.
Tyler and I have kept our relationship private at work. My choice as much as his—I wanted to succeed on my own merits, not as the boss's wife.
There were some colleagues in the beginning who knew we were a couple. But most of them have left. Now, most of my colleagues don't even know we're married. They probably think I'm just another designer with an attitude who somehow always manages to get her design collections approved.
The office is already buzzing when I arrive. Conversations halt as I walk past, resuming in whispers once I'm beyond earshot. I feel eyes tracking me, assessing.
‘Did I miss something?’
The air charged with an energy I can't place.
I've barely settled in my office when my phone rings.
"Ms. Lander, please come to my office immediately." Karen from HR. Her voice clipped, professional, cold.
‘She never did like me.’
Karen's office is all sharp angles and monochrome decor. She sits behind her desk, a manila folder open in front of her. She doesn't invite me to sit.
"You're late." No preamble, no pleasantries.
"Yeah, I wasn’t feeling very well this morning." I respond. "I thought the flexible hours in my contract—"
"You seem to be under the impression that rules don't apply to you." She cuts me off, closing the folder with a snap. "This isn't the first time you've arrived well after nine."
"I often work until seven or eight in the evening." I keep my voice steady, reasonable. "I've never charged for overtime. The terms of my contract clearly state—"
"I know what your contract states." She stands, smoothing her already immaculate blazer. "But perhaps it's time someone checked that attitude of yours."
Heat rises to my face. "Excuse me?"
"You're so used to doing what you want around here, aren't you? Coming and going as you please, expecting everyone to accommodate your schedule." She walks around her desk, leaning against it, arms crossed. "Maybe it's time someone put you in your place."
I blink, the words hitting like a physical blow. "I don't understand. My designs have been among the company's best-selling collections for three years running. The CEO himself approved my last four concepts."
"Yes, how convenient that the CEO seems to approve all your work." Her smile is thin, knowing. Does she suspect? "But being a successful designer doesn't exempt you from company protocol. You're still just a Senior Designer by title."
My mouth goes dry. "What exactly are you saying?"
She presses a button on her desk phone. "Send her in, please."
The door opens behind me, and I turn. The woman who enters is like a ghost from my past, conjured into the present.
Sleek black hair, angular face, eyes that assess and dismiss me in a single glance. I know her instantly, though it's been years.
"Pia," I breathe.
Her red lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Hello, Analise. Long time no see."
Memories rush back—final year of design school, the competition that would determine which of us will be named top of the graduating class.
My Moonstruck collection against her Flower Bomb line.
The unanimous decision of the judges. The scorecards showing I'd beaten her by a full ten points. Her fury, her accusations, her complaints to the dean that went nowhere.
"What are you doing here?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
"Ms. Monroe is joining us as the new Vice President of the Design Department," Karen announces, satisfaction lacing her tone.
Pia's smile widens, showing perfect teeth. "That's right. I'll be overseeing all design projects from now on." She pauses, letting the implication sink in. "Including yours."
The room seems to tilt slightly. Pia, my former rival, now my boss? At the company that my husband owns? The company that I helped my husband build from the ground up?
And this woman, she once accused me of bribing judges, of stealing her ideas, of sleeping my way to success—now in a position of power over me?
"Congratulations," I manage, the word sticking in my throat.
"I'm looking forward to working together." Pia steps closer, her perfume—too sweet, too strong—invading my space. "I have so many ideas for how to... improve the department."
The threat hangs in the air, unspoken but clear. I don’t know what’s happening, but I would expect Tyler to mention something like this to me. From the beginning, I’ve been the only one running the design team, and there has been no problems at all. In fact, we are exceeding targets year after year.
“Well, you should know, for years, our growth has been phenomonal,” I tell her. “My designs are selling quite well in the market.”
Pia laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "Oh, Analise. Still the same. Don’t be too cocky. If you were the best there is, then, why am I in the position of Vice President, and not… youI?”
I stare back at her mocking expression. I want to retaliate, but I realize that she is right. If there’s one person who can answer that question, it’s Tyler. My husband. The one who sold my beloved Moonstruck design to his investor partner to get capital to build this company.
I stand up from my seat. “You know what? You’re right. I think that if there’s someone who can explain this situation to me, it’s Mr. Lewis.”
I turn around and head for the door.
“Wait!” Karen calls out. I turn back towards her. “You mean, you’re going to talk to the CEO? You can’t just march in his office and demand to speak to him.”
The expression on their faces are a mixture of amusement and mockery. And that annoys me even more.
I raise my chin up and confidently say, “Well, watch me.”