The True Luna's Forbidden Temptation - Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Analise.
I return to my desk, my head throbbing with the overwhelming news I just received. The fluorescent lights of the office flicker above me like judging eyes. My skin feels too tight today, my patience hanging by a thread.
Some days, I swear the walls move in when I'm not looking — and today, they're right on top of me, leaving no room to breathe.
I need to go out.
I need some air.
"Umm… I'm not feeling well," I tell my assistant. "I think I might be coming down with something."
She nods, tapping her pen against her desk. "Take care of yourself, Analise.” She smiles at me apologetically. That tells me that she knows I’m upset about Pia.
I force a weak smile, already feeling the weight lifting from my shoulders at the prospect of escape. "Thanks. I think I just need to rest."
The lie slides off my tongue with practiced ease. I'm not proud of it, but sometimes survival requires small deceptions. I don’t really mind having someone above me. It’s the fact that I was not given a fighting chance when I’ve constantly proven myself time and again that eats me.
Outside, the October afternoon feels like a cool embrace. I take a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. My car is in the parking garage, but I pause before getting in. I don't want to go home to an empty house, where the silence feels like Tyler's loudest message.
The mall seems like neutral territory. A place where I can disappear into the white noise of commerce and casual human interaction. I make the decision without really deciding and find myself pulling into the sprawling parking lot twenty minutes later.
Inside, the mall breathes with its own peculiar rhythm. Teenagers cluster in laughing groups, elderly couples walk with linked arms, harried parents chase toddlers across the polished floors. Everyone moving in their own orbits, unaware of each other's stories. This is just what I needed. To disappear among these people, to slip among them like a ghost.
The familiar emerald green storefront of TL Glam comes into view, and despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips.
‘My boutique. My creation.’
Tyler and the SB Capitals may have owned the shop, but hell! I own every piece of collection they are selling in it. My idea. My imagination.
I pause outside, watching through the glass as customers browse through the displays of accessories I designed.A woman in her thirties lifts one of my signature enamel bangles, its swirling blues and greens shimmering in the light. Smiling, she traces the gold surface with her fingers before adding it to her growing collection of purchases.
Pride warms my chest. This is what I've built. This is what I'm good at. I push open the door, the gentle chime announcing my arrival. Melissa, the store manager, glances up and her eyes widen in surprise.
"Analise! We weren't expecting you today." She hurries over, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Is everything okay at HQ?”
"Everything's fine," I assure her. "Just wanted to see how things are going."
"We're having a great day," she says, gesturing toward the register where another staff member is ringing up a customer. "The new autumn collection is flying off the shelves."
I nod, pleased but not surprised. I'd poured myself into that collection, channeling all the emotions I couldn't express into colors and patterns. "Mind if I just wander around for a bit?"
"Of course not. It’s technically your collection.”
Is it, though? The thought intrudes unexpectedly. On paper, yes. But TL Glam Studio is under Tyler’s name. Tyler's connections at SB Capitals made it possible for him to start huge. It was SB Capital’s PR firm handled all the marketing. So, in return, is really my collection if I couldn’t make a single sale without Tyler and his investor?
I move through the boutique, straightening a display here, adjusting a rack there. The customers give me curious glances. They don't recognize me as the the designer. To them, I'm just another browser, another woman looking for something to make her feel beautiful or powerful or seen.
A teenage girl catches my eye as she admires one of my leather wrap bracelets. There's something in her expression – a mixture of longing and resignation – that I recognize.
"It looks better on," I say, stepping closer.
She startles. "Oh, I was just looking. I can't really..." She trails off, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.
"Try it," I encourage, taking the bracelet and holding it out to her. When she hesitates, I add, "I designed it for wrists exactly like yours."
Her eyes widen. "You're the designer?"
I nod, helping her fasten the intricate clasp. The leather wraps three times around her slender wrist, the small crystal charm catching the light. "Perfect, isn’t it?"
"It's beautiful," she breathes, turning her wrist to admire it. "But I still can't—"
I cut off her protest with a wave of my hand. "Take it," I say. "A gift. From one artist to another."
I’ve seen the sketchbook jutting from her bag, the faint smudges of graphite staining her fingers—the unmistakable signs of someone who creates.
Her face brightens with a raw, unguarded joy, and something inside me — something tight and aching—begins to loosen.
This.
This is why I pour myself into every piece. Not for the sales reports, not for the glossy interviews, but for these fleeting moments when what I make actually means something.
"Thank you," she breathes, her voice catching on the weight of it. "I'll cherish it."
I watch her disappear into the crowd, and a hollow ache settles in my chest.
When was the last time Tyler looked at anything I made with even a fraction of that wonder?
When did I become just another cog in the machine of his ambition—a tool, not a muse?
The memories claw their way back: the two of us crammed into that tiny apartment, burning through the nights. Me, sketching furiously, lost in the rush of inspiration; him, scribbling out plans, dreaming just as wildly.
How he'd slip a mug of coffee into my hand without a word. How his entire face would light up when I unveiled a new design.
"You're brilliant, Analise," he'd whisper, the name curling in the air like a promise only he could make. "I promise, I am going to make the world see what a genius you are.”
He made good of that promise. Now the world knows my designs, but Tyler seems to have forgotten the woman behind them. Our conversations have dwindled to practical matters—schedules, finances, social obligations that benefit his PR firm.
When did his ambition become more important than us? Or was it always, and I was just too in love to notice?
I say goodbye to Melissa and wander back into the main concourse of the mall, my brief moment of satisfaction fading. The truth is, I came here hoping to feel better, to remind myself that I've created something worthwhile. Instead, I've only managed to highlight the emptiness waiting for me at home.
My feet carry me deeper into the mall, past stores selling everything from customized phone cases to gourmet chocolates. I'm not really looking at any of it until something catches my eye—a storefront so deliberately opulent it almost seems to exist in its own reality.
The display windows are filled with jewelry that doesn't merely shine but commands attention. Diamonds catch the light like tiny captive stars. Sapphires and rubies glow with inner fire. Even from outside, I can tell this isn't just expensive jewelry—it's wearable art, each piece telling its own story.
I look up at the elegant sign above the entrance: Luxe Emerald.
My mother's legacy. My birthright.
A familiar ache spreads through my chest. I haven't set foot in a Luxe Emerald store since my father had disowned me. I told myself before that I will reclaim my rights to Luxe Emerald someday. But now, I’m so busy making Tyler’s company successful, I might as well just forget about the company that my mother left for me.
I watch as a couple approaches the store, then hesitates at the threshold. The woman whispers something to her companion, and they turn away, casting longing glances over their shoulders. A group of teenage girls does the same thing, giggling nervously as they peer at the displays from a safe distance.
Was that my mother's intention? To create a brand so exclusive it intimidates the average person? I don't think so. She used to say that true luxury should feel like coming home to yourself, like recognizing something you've always known but forgotten. There was nothing cold or forbidding in her vision.
A massive LED screen above the storefront flickers to life, displaying Luxe Emerald's latest campaign. Models with impossible cheekbones and vacant eyes showcase necklaces and earrings against minimalist backgrounds. The images are beautiful but soulless—nothing like the warm, narrative-driven ads my mother used to create.
Suddenly, the advertisement freezes, then disappears, replaced by a news banner that scrolls across the bottom of the screen: "BREAKING: Lander-McGregor Group Announces New Leadership."
My father's face fills the screen. Even in this context, he manages to look remote, imperial. It has been more than six years since I last looked in his eyes in person. Now, our relationship has been reduced to me just looking at his face in the magazine, asking his picture endless questions about why it had been so easy for him to disown me.
The camera pulls back to show him standing at a podium, his hand resting on the shoulder of a woman with jet-black hair pulled into a severe bun. Lorraine. My stepsister.
The sound is muted, but closed captions scroll across the bottom of the screen: "...pleased to announce Lorraine McGregor as the new Chief Executive Officer of Luxe Emerald, effective immediately."
My blood runs cold. The world around me seems to dim, sounds becoming muffled as if I'm underwater.
‘This can't be happening!’
My father isn't seriously giving Luxe Emerald to Lorraine, is he?
But there she is, stepping up to the microphone, her sharp eyes seeming to look directly at me through the screen. Her lips move, forming words I can barely process: "...honored to continue the Lander legacy while bringing Luxe Emerald into a new era..."
“Legacy?” I ask loudly. “What the fuck are you calling legacy?”
Luxe Emerald is my mother’s legacy, her company, the one she built from nothing, the one that would eventually be passed on to me.
How could he do this?
A security guard gives me a concerned look, and I realize I've pressed my hand against the glass of the storefront, my fingers splayed as if trying to reach through to grasp what's being taken from me. I step back, my reflection in the window showing a woman I barely recognize—pale, wide-eyed, trembling with shock and rage.
The world keeps moving around me—shoppers browsing, children laughing, cash registers chiming—while my world has just stopped spinning. I need to understand why.
I need answers.
And there's only one place I'll find them.
I get my phone, and dial a number I haven’t dialed in years.