The Luna He Rejected: An Alpha's Regret

Chapter 8

Seraphine's POV

The coffee became a problem at ten thirty that morning, not because of the coffee itself, but because Dani spotted it.

I was standing outside my classroom during morning break when she appeared out of nowhere, stopped dead in the corridor, and stared at the takeaway cup in my hand. Her gaze slowly lifted to my face, then dropped back to the cup, then back to me.

"Oh no," she said.

I sighed. "What?"

"Who gave you that?"

I glanced at the cup, then at her. "You cannot possibly be serious."

"Who gave you that?" she repeated, clearly dead serious.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Dani."

"Seraphine."

"It's coffee."

"It's suspicious coffee."

"There is no such thing as suspicious coffee."

"There absolutely is." She pointed dramatically at the cup. "Normal coffee is something you buy yourself. Suspicious coffee is coffee handed to you by your ex-husband, who has spent the last four years regretting the biggest mistake of his life."

Several passing teachers slowed down, their ears clearly perking up. I lowered my voice immediately. "Would you stop saying things like that in public?"

"No."

"Dani."

"No."

I stared at her. She stared right back. Eventually I gave up. "Fine. Caden brought it."

Her eyes widened. "Aha."

"Aha what?"

"Aha, exactly what I thought."

I groaned. "Nothing happened."

"Mm-hmm."

"He just brought me coffee."

"Mm-hmm."

"That's it."

"Mm-hmm."

"Dani."

She folded her arms. "You know what's interesting?"

"No, and I don't want to."

"I'm going to tell you anyway." She ignored my closed eyes. "People don't wake up in the morning and buy coffee for someone they're completely over."

"Dani," I said again.

"He's only here temporarily," I added, gesturing toward the school grounds. My voice stayed calm and practical. "Two months from now he'll go back to Ironmoor, and I'll still be here."

Dani watched me carefully. Her expression made it clear she thought the situation was far more complicated than I was admitting.

"Caden Ashford is a temporary visitor," I said, crossing my arms. "My life isn't."

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then Dani sighed.

"You know what bothers me?"

"What?"

"There are children involved."

My stomach tightened. Dani noticed, of course.

"There are three little kids running around this school right now who don't know enough about the situation to understand how complicated it is."

I looked away, toward the windows overlooking the playground where sunlight danced across the glass. "That doesn't change anything."

Maybe it should have. Maybe one day it would. But not today. Today I still needed distance, space, and control. I'd spent four years building a life that didn't revolve around Caden Ashford, and I wasn't about to hand him the center of it again.

The school field sat behind the main building. Most afternoons the younger children spent part of their break there, burning off enough energy to power a small city. I was crossing toward the playground after lunch when I spotted Caden standing near the fence, just watching.

He wasn't participating. He was simply observing the children—specifically Evan and Emery. The boys were racing across the grass with several other students. Emery was shouting something about dinosaurs while Evan laughed, really laughed. The sound carried clearly across the field and made me slow my steps.

Caden didn't notice me until I stopped beside him.

"Parents aren't allowed on the field," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

He stayed quiet for several seconds before answering softly, "I haven't heard him laugh like that in months."

The words caught me off guard. I turned to look at him properly. His eyes never left Evan. The boy nearly tripped over his own feet trying to outrun Emery in whatever chaotic game they were playing. They both looked utterly delighted.

"He laughs at home," Caden said, "but not like this."

There was no performance in his voice, no manipulation—just raw, uncomfortable honesty. "He deserves better than what he's had."

The statement hung between us. I looked back at the boys. Evan's smile had transformed his whole face, making him look younger and lighter somehow. I thought about what Luna had said: how Evan watched doors, how he flinched at raised voices, how much sadness he carried for such a small child.

"Every child deserves better than that," I murmured.

Caden nodded slowly, as if accepting a difficult truth. For a moment the silence felt almost peaceful.

Then he ruined it.

"Have dinner with me."

I stared at him. "You were doing so well."

A faint smile flickered across his face and vanished just as quickly. "Sera—"

"No."

"It would just be dinner."

"No."

"A conversation."

"No."

His jaw tightened. I could see him fighting back frustration. "Ms Voss."

I blinked, then narrowed my eyes. "Alpha Ashford."

The title clearly irritated him. Good.

"Ms Voss."

"Alpha Ashford."

His mouth twitched despite himself. "You are impossible."

"I teach six-year-olds for a living." I smiled pleasantly. "You'll need to be more specific."

For one ridiculous second I thought he might actually laugh. Then reality settled back in, cold and necessary. I stepped backward.

"My students need supervision."

"Sera—"

"Ms Voss." The correction came out firm and professional. His expression shifted immediately—the title bothered him, probably because it highlighted exactly how far apart we were now. "Enjoy your afternoon, Alpha Ashford."

I turned and walked away. This time he didn't try to stop me.

---

Kevin was closing the café when I arrived that evening. The last customers had left, chairs were upside down on half the tables, and the rich smell of coffee still lingered in the air. He took one look at my face and handed me a drink without a word.

"Marcus called," he said.

I froze. "What?"

"Earlier today." Kevin leaned against the counter. "He's asking questions now."

My stomach dropped. Marcus Dele—Beta of Ironmoor, Caden's oldest friend, and one of the few people I'd genuinely respected before everything fell apart.

"I told him nothing," Kevin added, "but he knows something's wrong. He said Caden came back from the school looking like someone had punched him."

Despite everything, I almost smiled.

"And Marcus knows you," Kevin continued. "Better than most."

That was true. Marcus had always liked me for me, not because I was Luna. Somehow that made this worse. If he started connecting the pieces...

Kevin was quiet for a moment, then said the thing I'd been avoiding for four years. "Emery looks like him."

"Kevin."

"He does."

"I know." The admission came out softer than I'd intended. Of course I knew. I saw it every single day. Emery had my coloring, my smile, and my clumsiness, but other things belonged entirely to Caden: those eyes, that stubborn set of his jaw, the way he planted his feet when he thought he was right, the way he charged forward before thinking things through.

Kevin wasn't finished. "It's not just appearance. He moves like him too. Anyone who knows Caden well enough is eventually going to see it."

My stomach tightened. "Maybe not."

Kevin gave me a look—the kind that said he was disappointed in my intelligence. "Marcus definitely will."

I hated that he was right. Marcus had spent his whole life around Caden. If anyone could spot those pieces in a child, it would be him.

"And Luna?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Kevin smiled faintly. "She looks enough like you to confuse things."

Relief flickered for a second, then vanished. Neither of us really believed that would matter anymore.

"Caden isn't going to stop looking," Kevin said with quiet certainty. "He doesn't know what he's looking for yet. But he will."

---

The next morning started badly, which should have been my warning.

The secretary intercepted me before I reached my classroom. "Seraphine? The visiting Alpha is here. He said it was important."

My stomach sank. "Of course he is."

By the time I reached the staff room, irritation had overtaken surprise. The door was open. Caden stood by the window, and the moment he saw me he straightened. Something was wrong—his usual tight control was fraying at the edges.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. "The boy who's always with Evan. What's his name?"

A cold, uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. "Emery."

Something shifted across his face—fast and barely visible, but it was there. His eyes dropped briefly before meeting mine again. "And the girl? The serious one."

My pulse quickened. For a moment the silence stretched.

"Luna," I said quietly.

The name hit him like a physical blow. I watched the realization dawn—not complete yet, but far too close. His expression emptied, then tightened, then emptied again.

"Luna," he repeated softly, testing the name. His gaze snapped back to mine. "How old are they?"

The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. I said nothing.

"Seraphine." His voice roughened. "How old are they?"

The answer sat between us, obvious and unavoidable. Four years. The same four years we'd been circling since he arrived.

"They're four," I said.

Silence. Absolute silence.

Then his entire body went still, like a predator scenting something impossible. His eyes searched my face desperately for denial, for any kind of mistake. When he finally spoke, his voice barely sounded like his own. "Four."

I nodded.

His hand came up to his mouth, then dropped, then rose again—an involuntary movement, as if he'd forgotten how to function. "Are they... Are they mine?"

There it was. The question I'd known was coming since the moment he walked through the school gates.

I looked at him—at the shock, the confusion, the dawning horror—and remembered another room, another office, divorce papers, a signed name. I remembered packing alone, driving away alone, giving birth alone. Every night feed. Every fever. Every school form. Every parent meeting. Every single moment without him.

When I answered, my voice stayed perfectly steady. "Yes."

The word landed, and everything changed.

Caden staggered back one step, as if the ground had shifted beneath him. His face went completely pale. For several long seconds he couldn't speak.

"You were pregnant," he finally said.

I stared at him. The statement felt absurd. Of course I had been pregnant—what did he think had happened?

"You knew," he said, his voice cracking. "You knew when you left."

The hidden accusation irritated me. "I found out before I signed the papers."

His eyes closed for a second. When they opened, something inside them looked broken—something I'd never seen before. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I laughed, not because it was funny, but because I couldn't believe he'd actually asked. "Tell you?"

"They're my children," he said, the words echoing through the room.

And there it was, the ownership. Unfortunately, it was four years too late.

My anger stayed strangely calm, cold rather than hot. "You divorced me. You chose another woman. I left Ironmoor alone. I gave birth alone. I raised them alone." I watched every sentence hit him. "They learned to walk without you. They learned to talk without you. They got sick without you. You were four hours away living your life while I lived with the consequences of your choices."

The silence afterward felt enormous.

"I didn't know," he said, his voice wrecked.

"I know." I believed him. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that the years had still happened. The children had still grown up. The absence had still existed. Nothing could change that.

He took a step toward me. "Sera—"

"No." The word stopped him cold. I gathered the rest of my papers. "This conversation isn't happening here."

"We need to talk."

"We will," I said, surprising both of us. I moved toward the door. "But not today."

"Seraphine." The desperation in his voice almost made me pause.

I looked back once. The strongest Alpha in Ironmoor looked completely lost. Good. Maybe now he understood a fraction of what lost felt like.

"We will finish this conversation," he said as I reached the doorway.

I paused, then nodded. "Yes." Relief flashed across his face, briefly. Then I destroyed it. "But I'll decide when."

With that, I walked out, leaving him standing alone with the truth for the first time in four years.