Chapter 31 – Who's that? 

Chapter 31 – Who's that? 

Selene’s POV

The walls are closing in.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. No... this time it feels literal. Like the high ceilings are lowering inch by inch, the chandeliers swaying closer to my head, and the thick, suffocating air of the palace pressing against my skin like a heavy woolen cloak. The sharp scent of orchids, candles, and polished wood turns my stomach. My throat constricts.

I can’t breathe in here.

I won’t stay in this building another second.

The moment I saw it... them... it was like time stopped.

Just one glance. That was all it took.

Lucian.

Leaning in too close to Isolde.

I didn’t wait to see their lips meet. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they did. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t give myself the grace... or the torture... of staying to witness it. I saw enough in the way he looked at her. The subtle softening in his eyes. The fondness. The kind of quiet tenderness people don’t fake.

That was what undid me.

The kind of look he never gives me.

I turn and bolt... my heels cracking against the marble floor like the sound of bones breaking. Too loud. Too sharp. But I don't care. I pass stunned faces, blurred lights, maybe someone calls my name... but it’s all background noise now. Static. Meaningless.

By the time I burst out of the front doors, my lungs are screaming for air.

And the cold night air greets me not with comfort, but cruelty.

It slaps my cheeks, slips past the collar of my coat, and bites at my exposed throat. I gasp, the air too sharp, too thin. My tears break loose without permission. Hot. Relentless. Traitorous.

I don’t wipe them away. What’s the point?

I just keep walking. Fast. Almost running.

I don't know where I'm going. I just know I need to get away.

From the palace.

From Lucian.

From myself.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time doesn’t work right when your heart feels like it’s bleeding in your chest. When everything you thought you were building suddenly crumbles under your feet.

Eventually, I find myself at the river walk.

There’s a stone bench beneath a tree shedding silver leaves, its branches dancing in the wind. I collapse onto it like my legs have given out.

And I let go.

I bury my face in my palms, letting the saltwater flood down my fingers. I don’t sob. It’s worse than that. It’s silent. That kind of grief that doesn’t want to be seen. That only wants to be over.

I thought Lucian was changing.

He smiled at me. He laughed. He touched my hand once... his fingers brushing mine so gently I felt it for days after.

I thought it meant something.

But maybe it was kindness. Or obligation. Or pity.

Maybe he was playing a role for the sake of our unborn child.

A role I was too foolish to see through.

How pathetic.

The footsteps come softly, crunching gently over fallen leaves. Measured. Hesitant. Whoever it is, they don’t barge into my pain. They approach like someone entering sacred ground.

“Are you alright?”

That voice. Smooth, refined. Unshakably calm. But threaded with… concern?

I glance up, blinking through wet lashes.

It’s Prince Theron.

Of all the people I expected to find me in this moment... ruined, red-eyed, humiliated... he was the last. And yet… somehow, I’m not angry he’s here. I’m not embarrassed. Not yet.

He holds out a handkerchief. It’s white. Crisp. Clean. Monogrammed in silver thread. Absurdly elegant for the mess I am.

I take it with trembling fingers.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, my voice cracking down the middle. “Just… tired.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. Just sits beside me. Not too close. But close enough that I feel his presence like a weight anchoring me.

I grip the fabric tightly, folding it again and again in my lap. The silence stretches. I could fill it with lies, but I don’t have the strength.

“I saw something,” I murmur. “Something I wish I hadn’t.”

A breath. A pause.

“Lucian?” Theron says, not unkindly.

My shoulders flinch.

He chuckles... not mockingly. It’s a short, rueful sound. “Isolde has a gift for entanglement. Even blood isn't immune.”

I turn to look at him. His expression is unreadable behind his sunglasses, but his mouth is soft. No tension. No bitterness.

“You… don’t sound angry.”

“I was,” he admits. “Once. Thought I loved her. Maybe I did. Maybe I just loved what she represented. But loving someone who never truly sees you? It’s a slow kind of death.”

His words settle in the space between us like falling snow... quiet and heavy.

“I used to think that if I just did everything right... if I was charming enough, noble enough, perfect enough... she’d finally turn her eyes toward me,” he continues. “But some battles aren’t meant to be won. Some hearts are simply… elsewhere.”

My throat tightens. “Maybe I’ve been doing the same. Trying too hard. For someone who’s already chosen.”

Theron turns to face me. “Or maybe you were brave enough to hope. That’s not a flaw, Selene. That’s humanity.”

I blink. No one’s ever called me brave for that.

I glance down at the handkerchief in my lap again. “Thank you. For sitting with me. For not… making me feel like a fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” he says. “You’re… different.”

My brow furrows. “Different?”

“The way you carry yourself,” he says, voice lower now. “Even when your world is falling apart. You still hold onto dignity like it’s the last thing keeping you upright.”

I swallow.

“If I’d met you first,” he adds, “I think my story would’ve turned out differently.”

I exhale slowly. “That’s… kind of you to say.”

He rises, smoothing his coat like it’s a ritual. “I meant every word.”

Then a faint smile plays at his lips. Teasing, but gentle.

“If you ever grow tired of tragic love stories,” he says over his shoulder, “consider rewriting yours.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that. Swallowed by the shadows and rustling trees.

I sit there long after he’s gone. Listening to the wind. Watching the ripples on the river. The ache in my chest hasn’t vanished... but something is softer now. Less sharp. Maybe it’s the fact that someone saw me tonight. Not the wife. Not the vessel. Just… me.

Later, I walk to the temple.

It’s nearly midnight. The moon overhead is full and pale, casting long silver rays that spill like melted pearls over the city rooftops.

The temple doors are already open. She’s waiting for me.

The Moon Priestess.

Always veiled. Always still. She doesn’t speak right away. She never does. She waits until I’ve lowered myself onto the cushion across from her. Then, in a voice like velvet, she says:

“I see pain in your eyes, child.”

I offer a broken laugh. “I thought I was strong. But love… love humbles us.”

“You are not weak,” she says. “You are awakening.”

I swallow hard. The simple truth of her words breaks something inside me.

We talk. Of simple things... stars, dreams, regrets. She listens. She always listens. With a presence that feels ancient and kind. Like she’s made of stardust and memory.

And then, in a rare burst of dry humor, I joke softly, “If you were someone else, maybe I’d have fallen for you instead.”

She laughs... a low, melodic sound behind the veil. “And if I were someone else… would you choose me over Lucian?”

I freeze.

Her question shouldn't have weight. It’s a joke. An echo of mine.

And yet… it lands with a thud in my chest.

Would I?

I think of what I saw. The way Lucian looked at Isolde. The way my heart cracked open.

And I whisper, barely breathing:

“I think I would.”

There’s silence.

Then a quiet sound. The flutter of fabric. A soft clatter. A thud. Something… drops. Her hand? A talisman? I don’t know.

Then... unexpected... there’s a strange sound. A whisper. Laughter? No… it’s more like gloating. It slips beneath the door of my awareness before I can name it.

I shake it off, uneasy.

“It’s late. I should go,” I say, standing.

“Be safe, dear one,” she says. Her voice is still warm... but tinged with something else. Something unreadable.

The streets are empty. Quiet. The city sleeps.

The moon walks beside me, pale and watchful.

As I turn down the last lane toward home, I catch my foot on a raised stone and pitch forward with a gasp... too fast to catch myself.

But arms catch me.

Strong. Familiar.

Fingers grip my waist. Steady me. Hold me like I’m made of glass and fire.

I look up, eyes wide.

My breath hitches.

“Who's that?” I whisper.