WRONG LUNA, RIGHT ALPHA

CHAPTER ONE

The Rose estate smelled of expensive lilies and old, curated resentment. For Elena, the scent was a trigger, a floral shroud that masked the rot of her daily existence.

She knelt on the cold marble of the kitchen floor, her fingers raw from scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush. The skin around her knuckles had turned red from the harsh cleaning solution, and the ache in her wrists had become so familiar that she barely noticed it anymore.

She had been on her knees since early morning, moving from one section of the enormous kitchen to another while the rest of the household went about their lives as though she were invisible. Everything in the Rose estate had to shine, every surface had to be spotless, every room had to look perfect, but no one ever cared whether Elena was exhausted. To them, her tiredness was simply another inconvenience she was expected to endure.

The midday sun streamed through the glass windows. Outside, the gardens were bright with carefully maintained roses, their petals opening beneath the warm sunlight while gardeners trimmed the hedges and servants carried trays between the main house and the guest wing.

Elena could hear faint laughter coming from somewhere upstairs, a reminder that the people who lived in this house were enjoying the beautiful afternoon while she remained on the floor with a toothbrush in her hand. She lowered her eyes and continued scrubbing, refusing to let herself look toward the windows for too long. The view only reminded her of the life she had once imagined for herself.

"Still missing a spot, kitchen-girl."

The voice was a silk ribbon laced with barbed wire. Elena didn't need to look up to see Vivian. Her stepsister stood over her, wearing a sheer white robe that cost more than Elena’s entire wardrobe.

Vivian’s toes, painted a predatory shade of red, tapped rhythmically against the marble, inches from Elena’s knuckles. The expensive perfume surrounding her was sweet enough to make Elena's stomach turn, especially because she knew that Vivian had probably spent the morning sleeping, bathing, and choosing what to wear while Elena had been working.

Vivian's eyes moved over the floor with exaggerated disappointment, as if she had been searching for an excuse to torment Elena and had finally found one. Elena tightened her grip around the toothbrush but said nothing.

Elena kept her head down, her voice a low murmur.

"I'm almost finished, Vivian."

"Almost isn't enough. Mother wants the house pristine for the Alpha's visit. Though why she thinks a scrub-brush brat like you deserves to breathe the same air as Justice Kane is beyond me."

Vivian's voice carried through the kitchen, sharp enough to make the maid standing nearby lower her eyes.

Justice Kane.

Even Elena had heard his name whispered throughout the estate over the past few days. He was not an ordinary Alpha. He was powerful, wealthy, respected, and feared, the kind of man whose arrival could make an entire household rearrange itself around him.

The Rose family had been preparing for his visit since the beginning of the year, and Vivian had talked about almost nothing else. She wanted to impress him. Everyone knew it. Elena had also heard the whispers that Vivian hoped the visit would become something more than a simple social call, but she had never allowed herself to think too deeply about it. Whatever happened between Vivian and Justice Kane had nothing to do with someone like her.

Vivian reached down, her manicured nails digging into Elena’s shoulder, twisting the thin fabric of her faded T-shirt. She yanked Elena upward, forcing her to stand.

Elena was taller, but she carried herself as if she wanted to vanish into the drywall, her shoulders hunched, her eyes cast downward. Her body reacted automatically whenever Vivian touched her, every muscle tightening in anticipation of whatever came next.

Elena had learned that resisting only made Vivian more determined. She could have pushed her away. She was strong enough. But strength had never protected her inside this house. Her father had once been the only person who stood between her and the cruelty of the Rose family, and after his death, Elena had learned how quickly protection could disappear.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," Vivian hissed.

Elena lifted her gaze. Vivian’s eyes sparkled with a cruel, innate pleasure. It wasn't just about the chores; it was about the pressure. For ten years, since their father had passed and the stepmother had moved in with her two daughters, Elena had been systematically stripped of her identity. Little by little, everything that had once belonged to her had been taken away or made insignificant.

Her father's affection had become a forbidden memory, her mother's belongings had been locked away, and the things she loved had been mocked until she learned to hide them. She had once been a bright, stubborn girl who believed that kindness mattered, but ten years of humiliation had taught her to stay quiet, keep her head down, and survive one day at a time. Vivian knew exactly what she was doing, and that knowledge was what made every insult hurt even more.

"I heard you were sketching again," Vivian said, her voice suddenly airy. "In that pathetic little notebook. The one with the pressed flowers from the garden?"

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs. "It’s just a hobby."

She immediately regretted answering. She could hear the nervousness in her own voice, and Vivian heard it too. The sketchbook was the one possession Elena guarded more carefully than anything else.

She kept it hidden beneath an old wooden box in her tiny room and only brought it out when she was certain no one was watching. Inside were the drawings she had created during the few quiet moments she could steal for herself—trees, flowers, landscapes, faces, and pieces of memories she was afraid she would eventually forget.

The pressed flowers Vivian mentioned were old and fragile, carefully placed between the pages because Elena's mother had once loved flowers. They were more than decoration. They were pieces of a past Elena could no longer touch.

"You are delusional. You think you're an artist? You're a servant who happens to know how to hold a pencil."

Vivian's words settled over Elena like another layer of dirt. Elena lowered her gaze again, forcing herself not to respond. She had heard similar words countless times, but somehow they still found new places to hurt. She had never dreamed of becoming famous or wealthy. She simply wanted to draw.

When she held a pencil, the world became quieter. She could forget the chores, the insults, the cold rooms, and the feeling that she didn't belong in her own home. Drawing was the only place where she could be herself without someone telling her what she was allowed to become.

Vivian stepped back and signaled to the maid, who stood by with a look of practiced indifference. The maid handed Vivian the small, leather-bound sketchbook. Elena lunged forward, her hand outstretched, a gasp escaping her throat. For one terrible second, she couldn't believe Vivian had actually found it. Elena had hidden it carefully that morning, convinced that no one knew where it was.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she watched Vivian hold the book between her fingers. The sketchbook looked painfully small in Vivian's hands, yet it contained years of Elena's memories, dreams, and private thoughts. It was the closest thing she had left to a life that belonged only to her.

"Please, Vivian, give it back!"

Elena took another step forward, desperation replacing the fear that had kept her quiet. "Please. You can make me clean the entire house again. I won't complain. Just give me my book back."

Her voice shook as she reached toward it, but Vivian moved away before Elena could touch the cover. Elena's eyes remained fixed on the sketchbook, silently begging Vivian not to open it, not to look at the pages, not to touch the memories she had protected for so long.