Ten Thousand Reasons I Refuse To Be Your Luna

CHAPTER 8: Reason #8

“Who are you, really?”

The question left my mouth before I could stop it.

The alley had gone strangely quiet by then. The masked attackers were gone. Harold Benson, the old man they had cornered, was already being looked after by one of the bikers, while the rest fanned out through the surrounding streets like they were hunting down anyone who had managed to slip away.

Morrette looked at me. For one hopeful second, I thought he was finally going to tell me everything. Instead, he walked right past me. “You should go home,” he said. I frowned. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one you are getting,” he said harshly. “You lied to me,” I said, anger spiking inside me. “I kept something from you,” he said. “That is the same thing,” I muttered.

He stopped beside his motorcycle. “No. Lying is telling someone something false. I simply refused to tell you the truth.”

His calmness irritated me more than anything he could have shouted. “I deserve an explanation,” I said. “You deserve to stay alive,” he replied. There it was again. Everyone kept acting like I was standing in the middle of something enormous and dangerous while somehow refusing to tell me what that something actually was.

“I am tired of people deciding what is best for me,” I said. Morrette did not answer that. He put on his helmet and started the engine. Then, just before pulling away, he looked back at me. “Stay away from Chairman Lucien’s charity banquet tomorrow night,” he said, like giving off a warning. I blinked. “What?”

“Do not go,” he repeated. “Why not?” I asked him. “No reason,” he said, and accelerated off before I could ask anything else.

I stood there in the empty alley, watching him disappear around the corner, one question circling my head over and over.

How did he even know about tomorrow’s banquet? Only a handful of people knew my schedule that far in advance.

The next morning, Star Global was busier than usual. Employees rushed through the hallways with files, garment samples, and presentation boards balanced in their arms like it was some kind of competitive sport.

Clara followed me straight into my office. “The Aurelius contract has been approved,” she said. I smiled. “Good.” Clara continued, “The signing ceremony is next week.”

She handed me another folder, and I raised an eyebrow at the sudden second wave of good news. “There is another opportunity,” she said.

I opened it. Helios BioTech Corporation. One of the fastest-growing pharmaceutical companies in the country.

“They are looking for a global ambassador,” Clara explained. “The contract is worth hundreds of millions. If we secure it, Star Global officially enters the healthcare and wellness industry.”

I flipped slowly through the proposal. A beauty company stepping into medical technology. It was not something we had ever done before, and honestly, it made my palms a little sweaty just imagining the paperwork alone. “I want this contract,” I said. Clara smiled. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“The chairman of Helios is hosting a private investment summit tonight,” she added. I immediately thought of Morrette’s warning. *Stay away from Chairman Lucien’s charity banquet tomorrow night.*

Different event. Different location. And yet, the same uneasy feeling settled right back into my stomach like it had never left.

At that same hour, across town, Morrette stood inside an expensive tailor shop while a man fussed over the sleeves of his navy-blue suit.

Marcus leaned against the wall, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “I have known you for fifteen years,” he said. “I have never once seen you wear a tie.” Morrette loosened it immediately. “I hate this thing.”

“You will survive,” Marcus said, grinning. Sophia Reed walked in carrying a tablet. “We confirmed it,” she said, laying several photographs out on the table.

One showed the chairman of Helios BioTech. Another showed a handful of wealthy investors. The last photo showed a man in dark sunglasses, despite standing indoors, which struck me later as a very specific kind of suspicious. Sophia tapped the last photo. “That is our target.” Morrette studied it. “Name?”

“Victor Crane,” she said. “What does he do?” he asked her. “No one knows,” Sophia said. “He changes identities constantly.”

She swiped to another image. “For the last six months, he has been buying information about wolves. Pack territories. Bloodlines. Old family records.” Marcus folded his arms. “Information like that does not come cheap.”

“It does not,” Sophia agreed. “He has paid over ten million dollars to anyone claiming they know where the Moonstone is.”

The room went quiet. Marcus looked at Morrette. “If Victor reaches the buyer, he reaches the people behind all of this.” Morrette nodded slowly. “Tonight, I get close to Victor.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “By pretending to be another billionaire?” Morrette glanced down at the suit he was practically being sewn into. “I already miss my garage,” he muttered.

That evening, the investment summit took over the top floor of the Sky Crown Hotel. Crystal lights, classical music, luxury watches, and enough designer suits to fund a small country. Every guest in that room represented some combination of influence, money, and power. Exactly the kind of place Morrette hated most.

I arrived ten minutes later with Clara at my side. “This place is beautiful,” she whispered. “It smells expensive.” I smiled faintly. “It is.”

As we stepped into the ballroom, I noticed dozens of investors drifting between conversations, some hoping for partnerships, some just hoping to be seen standing near the right people.

Then I froze completely. Standing beside one of the largest investors in the room was a familiar man in a perfectly tailored navy-blue suit. His hair was neatly styled. His beard was trimmed. An expensive watch sat on his wrist like it had always belonged there. No grease. No mechanic’s jacket. No motorcycle boots in sight. Morrette Mitchell.

He looked ridiculously handsome, and I mean that as an actual complaint, because I almost did not recognize him standing there laughing politely with businessmen like he had been born into that world.

An elderly investor shook his hand. “Mr. Mitchell. It is an honor to finally meet you.” Mr. Mitchell? Since when did he go by that?

I watched him accept a glass of wine with a posture and confidence I had never seen from him before. Everything about him had changed, right down to the way he smiled.

Then our eyes met across the ballroom. For less than a second, his expression froze completely. Then he looked away, as if we had never met at all in our entire lives. No greeting. No reaction. Nothing.

I felt strangely, ridiculously offended by that. Fine, I thought. If he wanted to pretend we were strangers, I could play that exact same game.

A few minutes later, I stepped out onto the balcony for some air, mostly to keep myself from marching over and ruining his little performance in front of half the investment community.

The city lights stretched out endlessly below. A voice came from behind me. “You were not supposed to be here.”

I turned around. Morrette had followed me out quietly, and the polite smile from inside was already gone. “I could say the same about you,” I said.

“This is not a coincidence,” he said. “I came for business,” I replied. “So did I,” he said. He glanced through the glass doors back into the ballroom. “Listen carefully. Tonight is not about investments.”

I frowned. “Then what is it about?” Before he could answer, both of us noticed the same thing happening inside at the exact same moment.

Victor Crane discreetly slipped a black envelope into another wealthy businessman’s hand. The man opened it only long enough to glance inside.

There was no money. No documents. Only a photograph. Even from a distance, I recognized the face in it immediately. It was mine. And written across the bottom in bold red ink were the words: PROPERTY OF THE INSURANCE HOLDER.

I stared at it, my whole body going cold. “What,” I said, barely able to get the word out, “does that even mean?”