The Billionaire Alpha's Hidden Luna

Chapter 4: Cinderella Gets a Makeover

When Emily had visited her mother's hospital room that morning, the sight had torn her heart out. Elena Hart looked smaller than ever, her skin almost translucent against the white sheets, and her breathing arrived in shallow, uneven rasps while the monitors hummed. Right then, holding her mother's cold hand, Emily had made a silent, unyielding promise. She would go through with the elite companionship agency's agreement; she would do whatever it took. For her mother, she would survive this. They had a high-society party that very evening, and she was assigned to accompany a client.

With that vow locked inside her chest, she had turned back and gone straight to her dorm to get ready. Which brought her to this exact moment.

Emily Hart had never entered a*****e where the handbags cost more than her yearly rent, which was why she was currently standing completely frozen in front of a grand glass building downtown. The immaculate architecture looked less like a boutique and more like the entrance to heaven—or hell. Possibly both.

"This is a mistake," Emily whispered, her knuckles turning white around the straps of her canvas bag.

Sophie grabbed her wrist with an iron grip and aggressively dragged her forward. "It is not a mistake."

"It is."

"It isn't."

"It definitely is, Soph."

Sophie pushed the heavy glass door open, sending a soft chime echoing through the air. The saleswoman behind the counter looked up, offering a practiced, pristine smile. "Welcome."

Emily immediately spun around on her heel, heading right back for the street. "Nope."

The saleswoman blinked, her smile faltering.

Sophie let out a loud, dramatic sigh, catching Emily by the hood of her sweater. "We're sorry. She does this."

Emily pointed a rigid finger at her own chest, looking at the saleswoman. "I work at a coffee shop."

"Congratulations?" Sophie said, deadpan.

"My shoes cost exactly six dollars."

"That's impressive, Em."

"I bought them during a clearance sale at a discount outlet."

The saleswoman looked entirely confused, and Emily looked even more bewildered; neither of them understood why they were currently having this conversation. Sophie groaned and shoved Emily deeper into the plush interior of the showroom. "Ignore her, please."

"Please don't ignore me," Emily begged the woman, her eyes wide behind her thick lenses.

"She gets deeply intimidated around expensive things," Sophie explained, already browsing the racks.

Emily lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hiss. "I once broke an industrial blender at work, Soph."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sophie asked, pulling out a hanger.

"I don't know! I panic and shatter things when I'm nervous."

The saleswoman let out a genuine, sudden laugh. For the very first time since stepping inside, Emily relaxed—a little. Not much, but a little.

Five minutes later, she found herself completely surrounded by designer dresses worth significantly more than her entire university tuition. She stared at a tiny, white price tag on a silk gown. She stared again, then leaned closer, adjusting her frames. Panic seizing her, she grabbed Sophie's arm.

"THIS DRESS COSTS TWO MONTHS OF MY RENT."

Several high-society customers turned their heads uniformly. Sophie instantly covered her face with her hands. Emily quickly lowered her voice, her cheeks burning hot. "Sorry."

A brief pause stretched. Then she whispered loudly, "BUT IT'S STILL LITERALLY TWO MONTHS OF RENT."

The saleswoman started laughing again, shaking her head. Emily groaned, burying her face in her palms. "Everybody keeps laughing at me today."

"Because you're funny, Em."

"I'm genuinely not trying to be."

"That's exactly why it's funny."

Emily sighed dramatically, looking at the velvet carpets. "One day, people will truly appreciate my suffering."

"No, they won't."

"You're a terrible best friend, Sophie Martinez."

"I know."

They smiled at each other, the tension breaking. This was normal. This was them—chaos and deep affection wrapped together.

Three hours later, Emily stood rigidly on a small wooden platform while two professional seamstresses meticulously adjusted a stunning, navy-blue evening gown. She couldn't breathe. She was almost entirely certain her lungs had ceased functioning.

"Sophie."

"Hm?" Sophie asked, looking up from her phone.

"Are lungs biologically necessary for human survival?"

"What?"

"I think this dress actively stole mine."

"It's called shapewear, Em. Deal with it."

"It feels highly illegal."

The seamstress behind her suddenly tightened a hidden lace structure. Emily made a strange, wheezing sound similar to a dying goat. "Oh God."

"You're fine," Sophie laughed.

"I can literally see my ancestors beckoning me toward the light."

"You're being dramatic."

"My ribs are officially filing a union complaint, Soph."

The seamstress chuckled softly, pinning the fabric. Emily finally looked down at the gown in the grand mirror, then looked away, before looking back—her breath catching for an entirely different reason. She barely recognized the girl in the reflection.

Her usual oversized, faded grey sweaters were gone. The worn, scuffed sneakers were gone. Even her dark hair looked entirely different—soft, elegant, and perfectly tamed.

Pretty.

The word felt incredibly foreign in her mind; she wasn't used to it. Growing up poor in a small town didn't leave much room for vanity. Growing up with a chronically ill mother left even less. Every extra dollar they had ever scraped together had gone directly toward medicine, food, hospital visits, and basic survival. Not makeup. Not designer dresses. Not beauty.

Emily stared at her reflection, and her smile completely vanished. Sophie noticed the shift instantly, her expression softening as she stood up. "What happened, Em?"

Emily swallowed hard, her throat tight. "Nothing."

"Emily."

She hesitated, staring at the floorboards, then spoke quietly. "I just... I don't know who she is."

The busy room suddenly fell entirely silent. Emily looked back at the mirror. "I mean..." She let out an awkward, breathless little laugh. "That girl looks like she actually belongs somewhere important."

Sophie frowned, stepping closer. "What does that mean?"

Emily looked down at her hands. "It means she doesn't spend every single waking second worrying about past-due notices. It means she doesn't have to count coins at the register before buying basic groceries." Emily forced another small, fragile smile. "It means she probably has a mom who's completely healthy."

The joke wasn't funny. Nobody in the room laughed. The silence that followed felt heavy and raw. Emily immediately regretted letting the words slip out. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Sophie's voice was incredibly gentle.

Emily blinked rapidly, her eyes suddenly feeling warm and prickling behind her lenses. "I just... sometimes I get so tired, Soph."

Sophie reached out and took her hand. Emily squeezed it back with a trembling grip.

"I know," Sophie whispered.

"No, I mean really, deeply tired," Emily’s voice cracked, the wall of her pride finally splintering. The words spilled out in a rush, like water breaking through a dam she’d been holding for years. "I wake up before sunrise every day for the coffee shop shift. Then I sprint to classes, then the library shift, then the apartment reception desk. And then—then I go visit Mom at the hospital. I have to sit by her bed and keep telling her everything's going to be okay." Tears finally spilled over her lashes, blurring the mirror. Emily stared at the floor. "Even when it completely isn't."

Sophie's own blue eyes glistened. "You don't have to be strong every single second of the day, Emily."

Emily smiled sadly, wiping her cheek. "Somebody has to be, Soph. Otherwise, we sink."

That answer completely broke Sophie's heart, because it was the absolute truth. Emily had been carrying the weight of their world on her shoulders for years, and she never complained. She joked, she laughed, she tripped over furniture, lost her glasses, and walked into walls. But beneath all that clumsy armor, she was utterly exhausted.

An hour later, they entered the luxury beauty salon, and Emily immediately became nervous all over again.

"Why are there so many scissors in here?" she whispered.

"Because they're hairstylists, Em."

"They look highly dangerous."

Sophie rolled her eyes, guiding her to a plush leather chair. "You look like you're entering a medieval battle."

"I am entering a battle," Emily muttered.

An immaculate stylist approached them with a warm smile. "What look are we thinking today, ladies?"

Emily answered first, deadpan. "Minimal casualties, please."

The stylist burst out laughing, while Sophie groaned into her hands.

The makeover continued for hours, spanning hair, makeup, and nails. Emily asked approximately four hundred frantic questions during the process.

"Am I allowed to touch my face right now?"

"No," the stylist said.

"What if it itches unexpectedly?"

"Don't touch it."

"What if my nose suddenly explodes?"

"It won't explode, Miss."

"But if it theoretically does?"

The stylist finally looked over at Sophie, thoroughly amused. "Is she always like this?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Sophie sighed.

Emily gasped dramatically. "Rude."

Several hours later, the transformation was finally complete. The bustling salon fell entirely quiet. Even Sophie stopped talking—which was terrifying, because Sophie never stopped talking.

Emily looked around nervously at the staff. "Why is everyone staring at me? Guys?"

The stylist smiled warmly, stepping back from the chair. "Look for yourself."

Emily turned slowly toward the grand mirror and froze.

The woman staring back at her was beautiful. It wasn't because of the expensive navy gown, the expertly applied makeup, or the perfectly styled hair; she was beautiful because she looked confident, strong, kind, and alive. It was the version of herself she had completely forgotten existed beneath years of crushing stress and poverty.

Emily stared, stunned. She looked longer, then automatically reached up to adjust her glasses—only to remember she wasn't wearing them. Her vision was completely clear, the new contact lenses doing their job perfectly.

"Oh," she whispered.

The room laughed softly at her familiar clumsiness. Emily smiled—a real, soft, disbelieving smile. "Wow."

Sophie’s eyes instantly welled with fresh tears. "Oh no."

Emily looked alarmed, turning in her seat. "Why are you crying now?"

"Because you're absolutely gorgeous, you i***t," Sophie sniffled.

Emily groaned. "Please don't sob in public, Soph. People are watching."

"I'm emotional!"

"You're unstable."

Sophie laughed through her tears, and Emily stood up, pulling her into a tight, fierce hug. "Thank you," she whispered. The words were barely audible against Sophie's shoulder, but her best friend heard them perfectly.

Later that evening, Emily stood on the concrete sidewalk, staring at the grand, revolving glass doors of the luxury hotel. Her stomach twisted into a violent, painful knot. Everything inside her human instincts screamed at her to leave, to run away, to go back to her tiny, safe dorm room and pretend none of this had ever happened.

"Sophie," she whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at her friend. "What if I can't do this?"

Sophie’s expression softened completely, her hand gripping Emily’s arm. "You can, Em."

"What if I completely embarrass myself in front of this billionaire client?"

"Oh, you definitely will," Sophie smiled.

Emily groaned. "That was not encouraging at all."

"You'll embarrass yourself because you're Emily," Sophie explained, her blue eyes shining with absolute belief. "Not because you're not enough. You are more than enough for whatever is behind those doors."

The words hit Emily harder than they should have, settling deep into her chest. For a moment, she couldn't even speak. She just pulled Sophie into one final, quick embrace. "Thank you."

"Don't cry, you'll ruin the mascara."

"I'm not crying."

"Your face says otherwise."

"Shut up, Soph."

Sophie laughed, stepping back. Emily took one final, deep breath, stabilizing her shaking legs. Then she stepped away. One step, then another, then another, moving toward the grand hotel, toward the mysterious companionship arrangement—toward a future she could never see coming.

The revolving glass doors swept open, and Emily walked inside.

And several floors above her, in a private luxury suite overlooking the city lights, Ryan Blackwood stood beside a massive window. His broad shoulders were rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Beneath his skin, his inner wolf was pacing restlessly, scratching at his soul as a primal heat roared through his veins.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

The word had not stopped repeating inside his skull since the exact second he had laid eyes on her photograph. Not for a single microsecond.

Buzz.

His phone vibrated against his palm. It was a direct, urgent message from Damien downstairs.

Damien: She's here. Just walked into the lobby.

Ryan froze completely. The entire world seemed to grind to an absolute halt, the city lights blurring outside the glass.

Mate.

His inner wolf surged forward against his ribs with a thunderous roar. For the first time in his lonely life, an overwhelming, intoxicating anticipation flooded his senses.