THE CURSED LUNA WHO RETURNED WITH TWINS

**Freya's POV**

"What are you doing?" Aunt Freya asked, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

I didn't look up and continued scrubbing the floors. "Cleaning."

"The maids already cleaned this morning."

"I know." I kept scrubbing. The repetitive motion helped. It kept my mind quiet.

She walked over and gently took the brush from my hand. "Freya. Stop."

I turned to her, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. "I was just..."

"Hiding," she finished. "You're hiding again."

"I'm not hiding. I'm being productive." I said turning away from her and walking to the sink to wash my hands.

"You're avoiding the ball tonight."

"I never said I was going."

"You never said you weren't either." She leaned against the counter, watching me. "Why don't you want to go?"

I dried my hands on a towel and turned to face her. "Do you really need to ask?"

She sighed. "Freya..."

"Everyone hates me there, Aunt Elsa. They think I murdered their Luna. They think I killed my own parents. Why would I want to dress up and smile while people whisper about how cursed I am?"

She didn't argue, just looked at me with that sad, patient expression she always had when this topic came up.

"I'm tired. I'm tired of being stared at. I'm tired of pretending it doesn't hurt."

"I know," She reached out and tucked a strand of my white-blonde hair behind my ear. "But you can't let them win, sweetheart. You can't let them make you invisible."

"I like being invisible."

"No, you don't." Her voice was firmer now. "You're just scared and I understand that. But hiding in this house, scrubbing floors that don't need scrubbing, won't change anything."

I looked away. "What do you want me to do?"

"Go to the ball."

I laughed bitterly. "Why? So I can stand in a corner while people avoid me like I have a disease?"

"So you can prove to yourself that you still exist. That you're not just the girl they talk about. You're Freya. You're my niece. You're strong. And you deserve to take up space in that room just as much as anyone else."

Her words hit harder than I expected.

"What if something bad happens? What if they..."

"Then I'll come get you." She took my hands in hers. "One hour, Freya. Just give me one hour. If you hate it, if it's too much, send me a message and I'll come pick you up myself."

I wanted to say no. I wanted to go back to scrubbing the floor and pretending the world outside didn't exist.

But the way she was looking at me...

She really believed I could do this.

"Fine. One hour."

Her face lit up. "Really?"

"One hour," I repeated. "And if anyone says something horrible to me, I'm leaving immediately."

"Deal." She squeezed my hands. "Now let's get you ready."

Two hours later, I was standing in front of my mirror, barely recognizing myself.

The silver dress hugged my waist and flowed down to just above my knees. My pale skin looked less ghostly with the light makeup Aunt Elsa had insisted on. My hair, usually tied back in a messy bun, was brushed smooth and left down.

"You look beautiful," Aunt Elsa said from behind me.

I didn't feel beautiful, if anything I felt exposed.

"I look like I'm trying too hard," I muttered.

"You look like a young woman going to a ball," she corrected. "There's nothing wrong with that."

I turned to face her. "What if they laugh at me?"

"Then they're idiots." She handed me a small clutch. "Your phone is in here. If you need me, call. I'll be awake."

I nodded, my throat tight.

She hugged me. "You're braver than you think, Freya."

I hoped so.

The ballroom was already in full swing when I entered.

Music. Laughter. The clinking of glasses. People dressed in clothes that probably cost more than everything I owned combined.

I stood just at the entrance, frozen.

A group of women nearby noticed me and their conversation immediately stopped.

One of them leaned over and whispered something to the others. Instantly, they all looked at me.

My stomach dropped.

I turned quickly and headed straight for the bar at the far end of the room. If I was going to survive an hour here, I needed something to take the edge off.

"Whiskey," I told the bartender. "Whatever's strongest."

He raised an eyebrow but poured it without comment.

I downed it in one go. It burned, but the burn was better than the anxiety crawling up my chest.

"Another," I said, pushing the glass forward.

He hesitated. "You sure?"

"Yes."

He poured.

I was halfway through the second glass when my identity finally seemed to click with the crowd.

"That's her."

"The cursed one."

"I can't believe she had the nerve to show up here."

My hand tightened around the glass.

Just ignore them. One hour. You just need to last one hour.

But the whispers kept coming.

"Her parents died because of her."

"The Luna too."

"She's bad luck."

I set the glass down, my hands shaking.

I couldn't do this.

I turned and walked quickly toward the hallway that led to the restrooms. I just needed a minute. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could breathe.

The hallway was dimly lit and blessedly empty. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

You're fine. You're fine. Just breathe.

But I wasn't fine.

I pushed off the wall and started walking, not really paying attention to where I was going. I just needed to move. Needed to get away from the noise, the stares, the whispers, everything.

I turned a corner.

Then another. Then another. Before I finally stopped, looking around.

Where am I?

The hallway looked different. I'd gotten turned around somehow.

Panic flared in my chest.

I should probably go back the way I came, but which way even was that?

I turned around. Everything looked exactly the same.

My heart started pounding, when I noticed a door.

It was slightly ajar, light spilling out into the hallway.

Maybe someone inside can help me find my way back.

I walked over, pushed the door open and immediately froze.

A man stood in the center of the room. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Shirtless.

Tattoos covered half his torso, dark ink spiraling across his chest and down his ribs. Beneath them, I could see the faint texture of old burn scars.

He was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.

His eyes, gray, sharp, and intense, locked onto mine.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“No."

Time seemed to stop.

“Dante Vaughn!”

The Alpha's son.

The son of the woman I was accused of killing.