Falling

CHAPTER FIVE

|Aurelia Branson|

I should have run when I had the chance.

I should have climbed out that window right after Luna did.

But instead, I stayed. And now I'm paying the price.

The bathroom floor is cold against my knees, the tiles slick beneath my palms as I brace myself, gasping for breath. My hair is drenched, water dripping down my face in slow, torturous rivulets, and my lungs burn from being forced under.

"Again," my mother commands, her voice smooth, unwavering, like this is just another Sunday morning prayer.

"No, please—"

She doesn't listen. She never does.

Her hands are on the back of my head before I can move, fingers digging into my scalp as she forces me forward, and then—

Cold.

Darkness.

My head plunges beneath the water again, and the world disappears.

I thrash, panic flooding my veins, my lungs screaming for air, but her grip is ironclad, unrelenting. The water distorts everything—the sounds, the light, the shape of her shadow looming over me like some divine executioner.

I try not to breathe. Try not to let the fear consume me.

But then my body betrays me. My lips part, and water rushes in.

I jerk violently, my hands slamming against the porcelain edges of the bathtub, my nails scraping against the ceramic, but she holds me down, whispering words I can barely hear over the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my skull.

"This is for your soul, Aurelia. You have to be cleansed."

Cleanse me. Purge me. Drown me.

My body is screaming, but she doesn't care.

She's been waiting for this moment.

She thinks she's saving me.

I think she's killing me.

And just when the darkness starts creeping into the edges of my vision—just when I start to wonder if maybe that's what she wants—she yanks me back up.

I break the surface with a ragged gasp, coughing violently as I clutch the sides of the tub, water splashing everywhere, my entire body trembling from the cold and the sheer terror ripping through me.

"Look at yourself," my mother says, her voice eerily calm as she stares down at me with those sharp, unyielding eyes. "This filth inside you is destroying you, Aurelia. I won't let it consume you."

I suck in a breath, my throat raw, my chest heaving.

"This isn't love," I whisper, my voice shaking. "This is torture."

Her hand flies before I can react, the slap sending a sharp sting across my already bruised cheek.

"Love," she hisses, "is sacrifice. And if you truly loved yourself, if you truly loved God, you would fight this sickness inside you."

I flinch, my skin burning, my vision blurring with a mixture of water and unshed tears.

"Soon, you'll understand," she murmurs, smoothing her skirt as she steps away. "Your father will help you see."

I don't move. I don't breathe.

I just sit there, soaked and shivering, my hands gripping the edge of the tub as I stare down at my reflection in the water—distorted, broken.

And then I hear his footsteps.

Heavy. Measured.

My stomach twists violently.

No. Not him.

Not this.

But it's too late.

My father steps into the room, his expression one of solemn disappointment, like I'm nothing more than a failed test. A mistake in need of correction. He holds a worn leather Bible in his hands, his fingers running over the gilded edges like he's drawing power from it.

"You have fallen, Aurelia," he says softly, sitting down in the chair they've pulled into the bathroom just for this. "But it's not too late to be saved."

I don't answer.

I can't.

He sighs, flipping open the pages.

"I have spoken with our priest. He believes you've been led astray by temptation, but there is hope yet. With guidance. With prayer." His gaze lifts, pinning me in place like I'm a bug beneath a microscope. "And with obedience."

My stomach churns.

I've heard those words before.

I know what they mean.

They don't want me to be me.

They want me to be theirs.

"I don't need saving," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. "I'm not broken."

My father closes his eyes, exhaling slowly like I've just personally wounded him.

"That's not your voice speaking," he says, shaking his head. "That's her voice. That's the Devil's influence. He's whispering lies into your heart, my love. And I'm going to help you see the truth."

The Bible snaps shut with a decisive thud, and suddenly, his hand is on my forehead, his grip firm, fingers pressing hard against my skin.

I tense instantly.

"No," I rasp, trying to pull away, but his other hand grips my shoulder, holding me in place.

"Be still," he orders. "Let the Lord work through me."

I start to shake, dread curling around my ribs, squeezing tighter and tighter as he begins to chant.

Verses spill from his lips like a mantra, low and steady, words I know by heart but have never feared until now.

"Deliver her, O Lord, from the snares of sin."

"Cleanse her of this wickedness, let not her soul be tainted by the darkness of corruption."

"Return her to the path of righteousness, where she may be made whole again."

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath hitching.

This isn't just a prayer.

This is a ritual.

This is them trying to erase me.

I feel his thumb press into the center of my forehead, right between my brows, as his voice dips lower, more insistent. His words slur together, rhythmic and calculated, his touch growing heavier, the pressure behind his fingers making my head throb.

The air shifts.

Something is wrong.

My body feels strange—detached, weightless, like I'm floating just outside of myself, watching everything happen from a distance.

My father keeps speaking, his words curling around me like invisible chains, sinking into my skin, into my mind.

"You will forget this sickness."

"You will let go of the sin."

"You will obey."

My head sways, dizziness crashing into me in waves.

I feel like I'm slipping.

Like something is pulling at me, reaching deep into my thoughts, my memories, my self.

And then I hear it—

A voice.

Soft. Fierce. Familiar.

"Fight it, Aurelia."

My heart slams against my ribs.

Luna.

I don't know how, I don't know why, but it's her voice I hear, cutting through the fog, slicing through the words that threaten to swallow me whole.

"Don't let them take you away from me."

I gasp, snapping back into my body so fast it's like being shoved into freezing water.

And then I shove back.

Hard.

My father stumbles, his grip breaking, his eyes widening in shock.

"I am not yours to control," I spit, my voice shaking but fierce, raw with anger, with defiance, with me.

His expression darkens.

My mother rises to her feet.

But I don't wait for their next move.

I bolt.

Out of the bathroom. Down the hall. Through the front door—

And into the night.

The night air is sharp against my damp skin, but I barely register the cold as I run, my heartbeat a violent drum against my ribs, my pulse a frenzied rush in my ears. My bare feet slap against the pavement, the sting grounding me, reminding me that I'm real, that I'm alive, that I'm free—at least for now.

I don't know where I'm going. I don't care.

All I know is that I have to go.

Behind me, the house looms like a gaping wound in the darkness, its windows glowing with warm, golden light that feels like a trick—a mirage of safety masking the cruelty within. My father's voice bellows from inside, my mother's shriller tone rising in protest, but I don't slow down.

If I stop, I'll never move again.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I sprint past the neatly trimmed hedges, past the pristine neighborhood that has always felt more like a stage than a home. Every house on this street is a carefully curated illusion—perfect white fences, symmetrical lawns, curtains drawn just enough to hide the imperfections inside.

Just like my family.

A pristine image of faith and virtue, concealing the rot beneath.

My mother, with her razor-sharp smiles and sermons of love, who can drown her own daughter without blinking.

My father, with his unwavering devotion to the scriptures, who would rather erase me than accept me.

They don't love me.

They love the idea of me.

The version of me they've molded, polished, and paraded through Sunday services and charity galas. The obedient daughter, the golden girl, the perfect Branson heir who would marry a fine young man and bear fine young children and continue their fine, faultless legacy.

Not this me.

Not the me that loves girls.

Not the me that kissed Luna Moore under the bleachers two years ago and felt something real for the first time in my life.

I push harder, my lungs burning, my muscles screaming, but I don't care.

I can't go back.

I won't go back.

The streets blur together as I run, the weight of what just happened crashing over me in fragmented, jagged waves—my mother's hands holding me under, my father's voice pressing into my mind like a brand, the sickening realization that they truly believe they can fix me.

That they would rather see me suffer—see me dead—than see me love the way I was born to love.

A strangled sob rips from my throat, but I don't stop.

I keep running.

And then—

Headlights.

Bright, blinding.

I stumble to a halt as a sleek black car screeches to a stop just inches from me, my breath coming in desperate gasps, my vision hazy from exhaustion and panic.

The driver's door flies open, and then—

Luna.

Her fiery hair is messy, her emerald eyes sharp and seething as she slams the door shut and storms toward me, her long legs eating up the distance between us in an instant.

"Aurelia—" Her voice is sharp, frantic, but then she sees me.

Sees the soaked nightgown clinging to my shaking frame.

Sees the red mark blooming on my cheek.

Sees the absolute wreckage in my eyes.

And her expression changes.

The anger doesn't fade—it shifts.

Becomes something darker.

More dangerous.

She steps closer, her fingers twitching at her sides, like she's resisting the urge to reach for me. "What the f**k happened?"

I shake my head, the words trapped behind the lump in my throat, my body betraying me as a violent tremor wracks through me.

Luna's jaw clenches so tight I can hear her teeth grind.

Then, without warning, she yanks off her hoodie and shoves it over my head, the scent of her instantly surrounding me—smoky vanilla and something unmistakably her.

Her fingers work fast, adjusting the sleeves, pulling the hem down to cover my trembling hands. "Get in the car."

I hesitate.

Because this—this moment, this choice—is irreversible.

If I get in, there's no going back.

No fixing what's been shattered.

But maybe that's the point.

Maybe I don't want to fix it.

Maybe I want to burn it all down.

So I nod.

And Luna—without another word—takes my hand, leads me to the car, and drives me away from everything I've ever known.

The silence in the car is thick, dense with everything unsaid, charged with unspoken rage and the ghost of my shuddering breaths. Luna's grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, her jaw tight, her eyes trained on the road like she's barely keeping herself together.

I curl into the oversized hoodie, drowning in its warmth, in her scent, but it doesn't stop the shaking. My hair is still damp, my skin still cold, my mind still looping through the events of the last hour like a horror reel on repeat.

The way my mother held me down.

The way my father whispered verses as if words could scrub my soul clean.

The way they looked at me—not with love, not with pain, but with revulsion.

As if I was something vile, something sinful, something that could be cured if only they tried hard enough.

A sharp inhale.

I look up.

Luna's knuckles are taut over the leather, her shoulders stiff, her entire body radiating barely restrained fury.

She doesn't look at me.

She doesn't have to.

I know her well enough to recognize the storm brewing beneath the surface.

"Luna," I start, my voice hoarse, brittle. "Don't—"

"Who did this to you?" Her voice is low, too low, the kind of quiet that only happens before an explosion.

I swallow hard, pressing my fingers into the sleeves of her hoodie. "It doesn't matter—"

"Who?"

Her voice is sharp now, cutting through the heavy air like a blade.

I stare at her profile, at the hard line of her jaw, at the muscle ticking just below her ear, and I know there's no lying to her.

So I say it.

"My mother."

The car swerves.

Just slightly, just for a second, but enough for my breath to hitch as Luna's grip tightens, her knuckles turning even paler, her chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths.

She's livid.

It radiates off her, crackling like a live wire, and for the briefest moment, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time—protected.

But she's too quiet.

Too still.

I reach for her wrist, fingers brushing over the rapid pulse beneath her skin. "Luna, please—"

"I swear to f*****g god, Aurelia." Her voice is a rasp, raw and trembling under the weight of barely restrained violence. "If I ever see her, if she ever touches you again, if she even breathes wrong in your direction—"

She cuts herself off, slamming her palm against the steering wheel, her body vibrating with unspent rage.

And suddenly, I'm the one panicking.

Because Luna doesn't do this.

She doesn't lose control.

She doesn't let herself feel this much.

Not for anyone.

Not even for me.

And it hits me—this is dangerous.

If I let her keep spiraling, if I let her drown in this rage, she will do something reckless, something irreversible, something that will ruin her in ways I cannot afford.

So I do the only thing I can think of.

I grab her face.

And I kiss her.

It's desperate, rushed, messy—the press of lips, the clash of breath, the sharp inhale she takes the second our mouths collide. Her fingers flex against the wheel, hesitation threading through her tension, but I don't stop.

I can't stop.

I press closer, fisting the front of her hoodie, pouring everything I can't say into the space between us.

That I need her.

That I miss her.

That I don't know where else to go.

Luna exhales sharply against my lips, the fight in her stance cracking, the fire in her veins cooling just enough for her fingers to twitch, for her body to relax ever so slightly—

And then, just as quickly, she pulls away.

Just an inch.

Just enough to breathe.

Her forehead presses against mine, her eyes still closed, her breath coming in uneven gasps.

"You can't do that," she whispers, voice thick with something unreadable. "You can't just do that to shut me up."

I don't answer.

Because I don't know what to say.

Because maybe she's right.

Or maybe—

Maybe I just wanted to kiss her.

Luna doesn't speak for a long moment, her forehead still resting against mine, her breath mingling with mine in the cool night air. Her hands are loose by her sides, as if she's trying to resist touching me, holding back the instinct that has always been there between us.

But then, with a quiet exhale, she lifts a hand, fingertips ghosting over my cheek, barely there, like she's afraid I'll flinch.

"I should take you home," she murmurs, but her voice lacks conviction, as if she already knows that's not happening.

I close my eyes, leaning into her touch.

"I don't want to go home."

Luna is silent.

And then, in one slow, deliberate movement, she tilts my chin up, guiding my face closer until there's nothing between us but the soft brush of her lips against mine.

A kiss.

Gentle. Careful. Unlike the one I gave her earlier, unlike the desperation I shoved between us in my attempt to ground her, to stop her from losing herself in her rage.

This—this is something else.

It's patient. Soft. A question she doesn't need to ask out loud.

Are you okay?

I let out a shaky breath, nodding just slightly against her lips.

Luna pulls away first, barely an inch, but the warmth of her lingers, settling deep in my chest. "Come home with me," she says quietly. "Just for tonight."

I don't hesitate. "Okay."

—

The drive to Luna's house is quiet, but it's not an uncomfortable silence. It's safe, a stark contrast to the suffocating stillness of my own home, where every breath feels like a sin, where I'm constantly bracing for the next cruel word, the next punishment dressed as salvation.

Luna's fingers drum against the steering wheel as we take the road leading to the edge of town, her grip noticeably looser than before. I glance at her from the passenger seat, taking in the sharp set of her jaw, the way the streetlights cast fleeting golden streaks across her freckled skin.

She's beautiful.

She's always been beautiful.

But right now, there's something else about her, something softer beneath the strength, something only I ever got to see.

She catches me looking and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

I shake my head quickly. "Nothing."

Luna smirks, but she doesn't push.

And then, we pull up to her house.

Except house is an understatement.

Luna lives in a mansion. A massive estate tucked behind high security gates, the kind of place that screams old money, with pristine lawns, marble columns, and security cameras tracking every movement.

I swallow hard as we drive up the long path, stopping near the entrance where a few guards stand post.

She cuts the engine and glances at me.

"My parents sent me here for school," she explains, as if I don't already know. "They live overseas, too busy playing politician and philanthropist, so I've had this place to myself for years."

I nod slowly. "So you live here all alone?"

Luna shrugs. "Not alone alone. There's staff. Security. A housekeeper. But... yeah, mostly."

I should feel out of place. I should feel small in comparison to the grandeur of her home. But instead, I just feel—

Safe.

Luna climbs out first, tossing the keys to a waiting guard, then rounds the car to open my door before I can do it myself.

My heart stumbles a little at the gesture.

She doesn't say anything, just reaches for my hand and leads me inside.

—

The house is warm, dimly lit with soft golden lights, the faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air. It feels more like a home than I expected, less like a cold, lifeless estate and more like something hers.

Luna kicks off her sneakers near the staircase, then glances at the housekeeper who appears at the end of the hallway.

"It's late, Mrs. Lane," she says, her voice softer than usual. "Go get some sleep. I've got everything handled."

The older woman looks between us, eyes assessing, and then she nods, offering me a small, kind smile before disappearing down the hall.

And just like that, we're alone.

Luna turns to me, studying me for a moment before reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from my face.

"You need a bath," she murmurs, her voice low, careful. "Come on."

I follow her up the grand staircase, through hallways lined with paintings, until we reach a bathroom that looks bigger than my entire bedroom.

Luna moves quickly, turning on the tub, adjusting the temperature with practiced ease, grabbing towels and setting out a plush robe.

Then, she hesitates, rubbing the back of her neck. "Do you need help or—?"

I shake my head quickly. "I can do it."

She nods, lingering for a moment longer before stepping back. "I'll be in the kitchen. Take your time."

—

When I come downstairs, the smell of something warm and real fills the air, something that makes my stomach twist with a hunger I hadn't even realized I was ignoring.

Luna is in the kitchen, standing over the stove, her sleeves rolled up, her hair slightly tousled.

She looks good like this.

Unfiltered.

Relaxed.

Mine.

Except she's not, not really, not anymore.

She glances up as I step inside, her gaze sweeping over me in the robe she set out, her lips pressing together for a moment before she smirks.

"Hungry?"

I nod.

She plates something up—pasta, simple but warm, made by her—and slides it toward me.

I sit at the kitchen island, watching her as she leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

She doesn't eat.

She just watches.

"You didn't have to cook for me," I murmur between bites.

Luna tilts her head. "I wanted to."

Something swells in my chest, thick and overwhelming, and I look away, focusing on the food, on the warmth filling the empty spaces inside me.

When I'm done, Luna takes the plate, rinsing it off before turning to me again.

"You're exhausted," she says. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."

I follow her through the quiet house until she stops in front of a bedroom that smells faintly of lavender, the bed freshly made, the lights dimmed to a soft glow.

"This is for you," she says. "If you need anything—"

"Stay."

The word slips out before I can stop it, barely a whisper, barely a plea, but Luna stiffens all the same.

She hesitates, staring at me like she's waiting for me to take it back.

I don't.

Finally, she exhales, rubbing a hand over her face before nodding once.

"Okay," she murmurs.

And then, she steps inside, closing the door behind her, as if she's sealing off the rest of the world.

Luna sits on the edge of the bed, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. The room is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows against the walls. The air between us is heavy, thick with unspoken words, but she doesn't rush me. She never does.

Her gaze flickers down to my hands, which are clenched tightly in my lap, the white robe bunched between my fingers. I can feel my heartbeat drumming in my ears, an anxious rhythm that matches the swirling chaos in my chest.

"Aurelia," she finally says, voice steady but gentle, like she's testing the weight of my name on her tongue. "Tell me what happened."

I swallow hard. I knew this was coming, but that doesn't make it any easier. The thought of saying it out loud—of giving life to the horrors of my home—makes my stomach twist with nausea.

I look down, studying the fabric of the robe as if it holds all the answers. "I—" My voice cracks, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself to breathe. "It's nothing."

Luna exhales sharply, a sound of frustration and something else—something raw, something pained. "Aurelia," she says again, firmer this time, but not unkind. "Don't do that. Don't minimize it."

I shake my head. "I don't want to talk about it."

Luna's jaw tightens, but she doesn't push. Instead, she shifts closer, resting her forearms on her knees, her fingers loosely intertwined. She's giving me time. Space. The choice to open up or shut down.

But when I glance up and see the way she's looking at me—so full of quiet rage and concern and something that looks a lot like love—the dam inside me finally cracks.

I take a shaky breath.

And then, the words spill out.

"My mother... she—" My throat tightens, and I have to force myself to keep going. "She dragged me to the bathroom. Said she needed to 'purge the sin' out of me." My voice wavers, and I grip the fabric of the robe tighter. "She held my head under the water."

Luna stiffens, her entire body going rigid.

I can't look at her. I stare at my hands, as if focusing on something small will make this easier to say. "It wasn't the first time," I whisper. "And my dad—he just stood there. He read scriptures while she did it. He tried to—" My breath hitches. "He tried to hypnotize me. Told me if I repented hard enough, I could be normal again."

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

When I finally gather the courage to look up, Luna's expression is unreadable, but her hands are clenched into fists so tight that her knuckles are turning white.

"Luna—"

She stands abruptly, turning away from me, one hand raking through her red curls while the other flexes at her side, as if she's trying to restrain herself from breaking something.

My chest tightens. "Say something."

She lets out a breath, but it's sharp, forced, almost like she's in pain. When she turns back to face me, her blue eyes are blazing with fury, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I want to kill them," she says, voice dangerously low. "I swear to God, Aurelia, I want to—" She stops herself, exhaling harshly.

I blink back the sting of tears, my vision blurring. "Please don't."

Her shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths, but then, after a moment, she moves toward me again. She kneels in front of me, placing her hands on either side of my thighs, her touch grounding, anchoring.

I can't hold it in anymore.

A choked sob rips out of me, and before I know it, I'm collapsing forward, burying my face against her shoulder as the dam inside me completely shatters.

Luna catches me instantly, wrapping her arms around me without hesitation, holding me like she's afraid I might disappear if she lets go.

She doesn't say anything.

She doesn't tell me to stop crying.

She just holds me, her fingers threading into my hair, her lips pressing soft, soothing kisses against the crown of my head.

"You're safe," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "You're safe with me."

I cling to her, my tears soaking into the fabric of her hoodie, but she doesn't care. She just tightens her grip, her warmth sinking into my skin, chasing away the cold, the fear, the remnants of my mother's hands around my throat.

Luna has always been strong, always been the fearless one, but tonight—

Tonight, she's just mine.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I'm not completely alone.