Novels by Luneth

ELARAI heard the shouting before I even opened my bedroom door.At first, I thought I imagined it. Sometimes the walls in this mansion carry old echoes, like memories that refuse to die. But then I heard a loud thud—something falling, or someone slamming a door—and that sound was definitely real.My hands froze on the doorknob.Another voice rose…the high, sharp, angry voice of Mateo’s fourth or maybe fifth mistress. Valeria. She was always loud—laughing too loudly, complaining too loudly, living too loudly. Everything about her felt big, like she needed the whole room to look at her.Tonight, though, she didn’t sound dramatic. She sounded furious.“You don’t get to disrespect me in your own house and expect me to stay!” she screamed.Mateo’s voice was lower, rough, like he was trying to keep himself from exploding. “Lower your voice.”“Make me.”I winced. The air felt tight, like I was breathing through cloth.I pressed my ear to the door without meaning to. I shouldn’t listen. I kn

ELARAThe Navarro mansion is too big.That’s the first thing I realized after Mateo brought me here — no, not brought… dragged — as his wife. I remember standing inside the grand foyer with my small suitcase and feeling like the house might swallow me whole.Even now, I still feel that way.Every hallway is long. Every wall echoes. Every door is too heavy, like it was built to keep secrets inside. And I walk around quietly, the way I used to when I was a child in the Moretti mansion, pretending that if I moved softly enough, the monsters wouldn’t notice me.I don’t explore.I just… drift.Like a ghost.I walk because sitting still makes me feel trapped, and the rooms are too silent, and Mateo’s presence—whether he’s here or not—sits on my skin like cold fingers.So I walk.But walking means seeing, and seeing means remembering, even if I don’t want to. I can’t help it. My eyes pick up small things. Patterns. People. Sounds.Not because I’m trying to.Because I’m scared.And when you’r

ELARAI used to think the Moretti mansion had two versions of itself.The one everyone saw: bright hallways, polished floors, gold-framed paintings, a dining room big enough to hold twenty people. The kind of place that made guests whisper, “How lucky she is… look at the life she has.”And then the version only I knew.The quiet one.The heavy one.The one filled with shadows that stretched too long and voices that dropped too sharp when the doors closed.By nine years old, I had already learned the difference.Tonight was one of those political dinner nights—one of Father’s big ones. The kind where he invited powerful men, shook hands too tightly, and smiled that stiff, perfect smile that never reached his eyes.I hated those nights.But I was always included.“Elara,” Father called from the bottom of the stairs, his voice echoing through the marble halls, “come down, tesoro. People are waiting.”People. Not him. Never him.I walked down slowly, my shoes pinching my toes, my dress to

ELARAI was nine years old the night my world tilted and never went back to being steady.The Moretti mansion had always felt too big for me—like a giant mouth that swallowed me whole. Its marble halls were polished so bright they looked like mirrors, its chandeliers sparkled like frozen icicles, and the endless rooms whispered with secrets. But that night, the mansion was quiet. Too quiet.Normally, the corridors hummed with life—maids moving about, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, or my father’s voice echoing sharply down the phone lines as he conducted business. But tonight there was only silence. A silence so thick it seemed alive. The only sound was the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each second like a drumbeat in my ears.I should have been asleep. Giulia always insisted on early bedtimes. “A girl who lingers awake at night will grow up with shadows under her eyes,” she would say, pressing her cold lips against my forehead. But sleep had refused to co

ELARA ***Flashback***The Moretti mansion always looked like a dream from the outside.The gates stood tall, guarded by black iron twisted into elegant designs of roses and vines. The driveway curved like a ribbon of stone, lined with cypress trees cut into perfect shapes. On summer mornings, the gardeners trimmed the hedges so carefully that not a single leaf dared stick out of line. Guests who arrived always gasped when they saw the white marble steps, polished until they glistened in the sunlight, and the grand double doors with golden handles that sparkled like treasure.I used to stand on those steps as a little girl and wonder if people who walked past thought I was a princess. Sometimes, I even pretended I was one—locked away in a palace, waiting for a fairy godmother to appear. From a distance, everything seemed perfect.But once you stepped inside, the air changed.The halls were wide and shining, filled with chandeliers and oil painting

ELARAIt’s been four days since Lucy died, and somehow, the house feels even colder now than it did the night she stopped breathing.The air is heavy, like it carries weight I can’t see. The staff avoid my eyes. The corridors echo with silence. Even the flowers in the vases look like they’re wilting faster. Grief doesn’t make time slow—it makes it unbearable.But it’s not just grief that suffocates me.It’s Mateo.It’s always Mateo.I lie in bed long after morning has crept in through the sheer curtains, the sunlight weak and pale on the floorboards. I don’t move. I can’t. My hands are folded tightly over my stomach like I’m bracing for something. I stare at the ceiling until the lines between the panels blur.Then I hear it.Laughter.A woman’s.Light. Effortless. Obnoxiously loud.It travels up from the lower level like smoke from a burning room—impossible to ignore, impossible to breathe through.My throat goes dry. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I try to swallow, but even that hur