Luna Lucky

2

The cop didn’t say much as he drove me to the station. My hands rested in my lap, trembling slightly, but I kept my face blank. I’d learned long ago that silence and composure were the best armor. He’d asked for my name, but I didn’t answer. Why would I? The only name I’d been called for years was Princess Whales, and I hated it. It wasn’t mine—it was something Lola had given me, like a tag for her merchandise.

She never cared to know my real name, and I doubted she even remembered I had one.

When we arrived at the station, the fluorescent lights made everything feel colder. The officer guided me through the building, his grip firm but not harsh. Eventually, I was placed in a quiet room with a chair and a table. Social Services was called, and I waited in silence, feeling every second drag by like an eternity.

When the social worker finally arrived, she asked questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Who was I? Where was I from? Did I have any family?

I stared at her, my lips pressed tightly together. The truth sat heavy in my chest, but I couldn’t let it out. Not yet. Eventually, they must’ve pieced together the scraps of information they had because the next thing I knew, I was being told my name was Lucky Berry.

Lucky, I thought bitterly. What a cruel joke.

The Orphanage

Lucky Berry, the social worker explained, was the name tied to the records they’d found for me. It felt foreign on my tongue, but I didn’t argue. After years of being called Princess Whales, I supposed anything was better.

I was sent to an orphanage until my court hearing in a week. The place was crowded, noisy, and chaotic—a sharp contrast to the rigid control of Lola’s world. I hated it immediately. The beds were small, the walls were covered in chipped paint, and the air smelled faintly of mildew. It felt like another prison, just one with different rules.

The other kids stared at me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Most didn’t talk to me, and I didn’t try to talk to them. But on my second day, I recognized two faces in the crowd—girls I knew from Lola’s operation.

They didn’t acknowledge me outright, but when we passed in the hallway, one of them whispered, “You alright, Princess?”

I froze, my pulse quickening. I nodded subtly, not wanting to draw attention. Later, when we were alone, they approached me.

“Lola’s worried,” one of them said. She was taller, her sharp features softened only by her tone. “You vanished.”

“I didn’t vanish,” I said quietly. “I left.”

The other girl, shorter and stockier, frowned. “You know what that means. She’ll come for you.”

I straightened my spine, my voice firmer than I expected. “Tell her I’m done. I’m not part of her business anymore. If she respects my freedom, I won’t say a word. But if she comes for me… I’ll make sure she regrets it.”

The taller girl raised an eyebrow but nodded. “We’ll let her know.”

They left that night, and I felt a small flicker of relief. It was the first time in years I’d stood up for myself, and while I didn’t trust Lola to stay away, I hoped my message would buy me time.

The Hearing

The week dragged by, each day at the orphanage blending into the next. By the time my hearing arrived, I was desperate to leave. Social Services escorted me to the courthouse, where I sat quietly, listening as they discussed my situation.

It wasn’t easy to share the information I had about Lola’s operation, but I knew it was my only way out. I told them everything I could remember—names, places, routines. They took notes, their faces grave, and when it was over, the judge spoke directly to me.

“You’ve been through more than anyone your age should,” he said, his tone kind but firm. “We’re going to help you, Lucky.”

It felt strange to hear my name spoken like that, as if it belonged to me again.

The court ruled that I would be placed in a transitional program. They’d found me a small apartment in a decent neighborhood, provided me with food assistance and other support programs, including therapy. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

A New Beginning

The apartment was tiny, but it was mine. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse, but the air felt different—lighter, freer. Social Services provided me with everything I needed to get started: groceries, a phone, even a counselor to help me navigate this strange new chapter of my life.

The first few weeks were hard. Therapy was the worst part—not because it was unpleasant, but because it forced me to confront things I’d spent years burying. The memories of my parents, the weight of Lola’s control, the hollow ache of a childhood stolen. It was overwhelming, but each session felt like peeling back a layer of the armor I’d built around myself.

Slowly, I started to feel like a person again.

For the first time in years, I had a taste of freedom. No Sir Dawson. No Lola. No fake giggles or forced smiles. Just me—Lucky Berry—and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, I could rebuild my life.

First Steps

Therapy had been hard, but it had also opened doors I never thought possible. During my last session, my counselor had given me a lead—a dollar store nearby was hiring. I was hesitant at first. After everything I’d been through, the idea of working a normal job felt alien. But after three years of trying to rebuild my life, it was time to try something new. Time to live, as they called it.

The first day was nerve-wracking. The manager, a kind but no-nonsense woman named Brenda, handed me a uniform shirt and walked me through the basics of stocking shelves and assisting customers. I nodded at all the right times, but my hands trembled as I worked. The simplicity of the task should’ve calmed me, but instead, it made me feel exposed. Vulnerable.

Still, I pushed through. Every day was a small victory, even if I fumbled my way through most of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine—a life I was slowly building on my own terms.

The Stranger

It was a quiet afternoon, and I was stocking the canned goods aisle when I heard a voice that made my heart skip a beat.

“Excuse me,” the man said, his tone gruff but soft.

I turned, and my breath caught in my throat. He was handsome in a rugged, unpolished way. Slim but fit, his dirty clothes clung to a lean frame that hinted at strength. His long, wavy black hair framed a face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of trouble. A faint nine o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, and a jagged scar cut across one of his striking eyes—the left, a vivid blue. The other eye was brown, warm but intense.

For a moment, we just stared at each other. My heart raced, and from the way his breath hitched, I could tell he felt it too. His lips parted, and then he said something that made the ground feel like it had shifted beneath me.

“Mate,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

I blinked, confused by the word and the weight it carried. “What?”

His expression softened, and he gave me a small, hesitant smile. “I’m sorry. I—uh—I didn’t mean to… startle you.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I was just wondering if you could help me find a few things. I can’t seem to figure out this place.”

I nodded, unable to find my voice. His smile widened, and for a moment, the roughness in his appearance melted away, replaced by a warmth that made my chest tighten.

As I led him through the store, helping him find the items he needed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about him was different. There was an intensity in his gaze that made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

When we reached the register, he turned to me, his expression hesitant. “Would it be alright to meet outside of your work sometime? Maybe… grab a coffee?”

My heart stuttered at the question, but I quickly shook my head. “No,” I said quietly, my voice steadier than I felt.

His face fell slightly, and a flicker of hurt crossed his features. “Alright,” he said softly, nodding. “I understand.”

He paid for his things and left without another word, but the weight of the interaction lingered long after he was gone.

The Second Chance

That night, I closed up the store, my thoughts still tangled with the memory of the man. His mismatched eyes, the way he said mate, as if it meant something more. I shook my head, trying to push it away. He was just another customer, I told myself. Nothing more.

I locked the door and turned to head home, but I stopped short. He was there.

Standing in the glow of a nearby streetlamp, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, was the same man. His head lifted as I approached, and his eyes caught mine again. For a moment, I froze, unsure whether to run or confront him. But before I could do either, he spoke.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier,” he said, his voice softer than before. “I just… I couldn’t leave without trying again.”

I frowned. “Trying what?”

He smiled faintly. “To eat something with you. You must have something you like—something simple. I won’t bother you for long. I just… want to talk.”

His words surprised me, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself nodding. “Alright.”

His face lit up, and he motioned toward a small diner just down the street. “How about there? My treat.” He walked to the side were there was a small flower and plucked it out then gave it to me.

I hesitated while taking the flower that made him smile lightly but followed him. As we walked, I couldn’t help but wonder what I was getting myself into. Something about this man felt… different. And for the first time in a long while, I was curious to find out why.