The True Luna's Forbidden Temptation - Chapter 35: Chapter 35

ANALISE
My hands shake as I pull clothes from the closet—anything that looks respectable, authoritative. I need to dress like Peter McGregor’s daughter.
A black blazer that still carries a faint trace of Tyler's cologne. Dark jeans. Shoes that click with purpose against marble floors. I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. Red-rimmed eyes, hollow cheeks, but something new burns in my gaze. Something that refuses to be extinguished.
I barely notice the drive to the hospital. I grip the stirring wheel tightly as I listen to the DJ talk about stocks and market fluctuations, but all I hear is that phrase that the newscaster mentioned a while ago on television.
“Critical condition. Critical condition. Critical condition.’
I barely park my car properly as I get down in the parking lot. I half run to the elevators and press the floor where the ICU is.
The elevator rises with mechanical precision, but my stomach lurches with every floor. What if he’s already gone? What if I’m too late to ask for his forgiveness?
“Relax, Analise! Your father is stronger than you give him credit for!" I scold myself.
When I hear the elevator’s ding, I’m already out even before the doors fully opened.
I approach the nurses’ station, my heart pounding against my ribs. A middle-aged woman in pink scrubs looks up with the practiced sympathy of someone who delivers bad news regularly.
“I’m here to see Peter McGregor,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
She consults her computer, fingers clicking across the keys. “And you are?”
“His daughter. Analise McGregor.” The name feels foreign on my tongue after years of being Analise Lewis.
Her eyebrows draw together. “I’m sorry, but you’re not on the visitor list. Only immediate family members are allowed in ICU.”
“I am immediate family,” I insist, leaning closer. “I’m his biological daughter.”
“Ma’am, I can only allow visitors who are specifically authorized. The person who made those arrangements was very clear about who could and couldn’t—”
“What seems to be the problem here?”
The voice slices through my desperation like a blade. I turn and see Lorraine approaching from the elevator bank, moving with the confident stride of someone like the daughter of Peter McGregor. She’s dressed impeccable. Even her hair is perfect, not a strand out of place.
If I didn’t know any better, I would not have guessed she has family in the ICU.
“This woman claims to be Mr. McGregor’s daughter,” the nurse explains, clearly relieved to defer to someone in authority.
Lorraine’s green eyes lock onto mine, and something flickers there—not surprise, but calculation. She knew I’d come. Of course she did.
She turns to the nurse and smiles sweetly. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” she says smoothly, stepping beside me. “This is Analise Lewis. She used to work for our family. She’s been coming to our house causing trouble. No, my dear. I’m the only child of Peter McGregor.
The dismissal is so casual, so perfectly delivered, that the nurse visibly relaxes. Here's someone who makes sense—composed, well-dressed, clearly from the world of private hospitals and family tragedy.
“You liar!” I say, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. “Peter McGregor is my father. I’ve lived in his house for ever since I was born. I grew up with her—when my father adopted her!” I point at Lorraine, who regards me with the pity reserved for the delusional.
“Ma’am, please lower your voice,” the nurse says firmly. “This is a hospital.”
Lorraine places a hand on my arm, her touch like ice. “Analise, I understand you’re upset. We all are. But you can’t just—”
I jerk away. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am, Lorraine. Stop playing games.”
“I know exactly who you are,” she says, her voice dropping to a dangerous softness. “You’re the woman who walked away seven years ago. Who chose a bartender over her family. Who was disowned and disinherited for good reason.”
The words hit like physical blows, each one perfectly aimed at my rawest wounds. Around us, I sense other visitors beginning to stare, drawn by the tension crackling in the air.
“He forgave me,” I say, desperation creeping in. “We talked yesterday. He promised to restore everything—my name, my inheritance, my position at Luxe Emerald.”
Lorraine tilts her head. “Did he sign anything? File any documents? Update his will?” When I don’t answer, she nods, satisfied. “Of course not. It was just talk. Sentimental ramblings of an old man.”
“That’s not true.”
“Maybe he meant it. In that moment.” She adjusts her purse strap. “But intentions don’t matter. Legal documents do. And legally, officially, in every way that counts—you are not Peter McGregor’s daughter.”
The nurse shifts uncomfortably behind her desk, wishing the drama would move elsewhere. Lorraine isn’t finished.
“I am his daughter,” she says, voice rising. “You’re just the adopted one. We both know it!”
The walls feel like they’re closing in. The fluorescent lights too bright, the disinfectant too sharp. This can’t be happening. Not now.
“You can’t keep me from seeing him,” I say, though the words feel hollow. “I have rights.”
“What rights?” Lorraine laughs softly, icily. “Like I said, did he change his will? Did you initiate your re-registration into the family tree?”
My mouth opens, then closes. My father erased every document linking us, to protect my inheritance from Tyler. Everything is locked away—sealed without his consent.
“Thought so,” Lorraine murmurs, stepping closer until her perfume engulfs me. “You have nothing, Analise. No proof. No claim. No standing.”
Her triumph is subtle, but unmistakable. This is what she’s wanted: me, powerless and desperate.
“The security guards will escort you out if necessary,” she adds smoothly. “I’d prefer not to make a scene.”
Rage builds in my chest, hot and pure. This woman—this adopted daughter—thinks she can erase me completely. But I know things about her. Weapons she handed me herself.
“Does he know?” I ask quietly, making her lean in. “That you’ve been living with Tyler Lewis? That you're pregnant with his baby?”
For the first time, her composure cracks. A muscle twitches in her jaw.
“Does he know,” I press, “that you’re playing house with the man he disowned me for loving?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lorraine says, but her voice has lost its bite.
“Don’t I?” I ask, watching color drain from her face. “You think he’ll be proud when he finds out you’ve been sleeping with the man he hates most?”
She glances toward the nurses’ station, then steps closer, her voice barely a whisper. “My father will never know any of that. Because he’s not going to wake up.”
The words freeze me. “What do you mean?”
“He has a fifteen percent chance of regaining consciousness,” she says calmly. “And if he does, his brain damage is likely irreversible. Memory loss. Impaired judgment.”
I stare at her, the horror dawning slowly.
“You’re hoping he dies,” I breathe.
“I’m being realistic,” she replies, smoothing her jacket. “And ensuring his empire is protected during this... unfortunate situation.”
“Protected?” I echo. “You mean stolen.”
Her smile is sharp as broken glass. “I mean managed by someone with legal authority. Which, as we’ve established, is me.”
The corridor tilts beneath my feet. She’ll destroy everything he built. Everything my mother built.
“Within six months,” she says, voice turning clinical, “I’ll have the board vote to merge Luxe Emerald with a larger conglomerate. The McGregor name will vanish. And any claim you ever had will die with it.”
“You can’t. The board won’t approve—”
“They’ll approve what I recommend. I’ve been running Luxe Emerald for months. They trust me. They see me as Peter’s chosen successor.”
“He told them you were temporary—”
“Until what? His disowned daughter magically reappeared?” Lorraine shakes her head. “No one even remembers you. He was very thorough.”
Her words settle like ash.
“By the time he recovers,” she whispers, “if he does, there will be nothing left to restore. No company. No inheritance. No legacy. Just the memory of what might have been.”
She steps back, smoothing her suit and expression.
“Now,” she says gently, “leave. Before I call security. This is a private family matter. And you’re not family. Not anymore.”
I stand frozen, surrounded by beeping machines and the scent of bleach, realizing the truth. Lorraine never loved my father. She only loved being a McGregor. And she doesn’t care if he’ll live or die, so long as she’s a McGregor.
Lorraine isn’t holding a gun. But she is a killer
And she’s about to murder everything my father ever loved.