The Fake Luna

Chapter 4

Sia.

I did a quick Google search on what Marilyn actually does for work — you know, the life I accidentally hijacked. And let me tell you… I nearly fell off the designer stool.

Turns out, Miss Marilyn Maeve isn’t just some spoiled wolf with a designer shoe addiction. She owns the whole damn fashion empire. CEO of MaeveLover Collection. A dozen awards, international recognition, Vogue interviews name it.

I walked into her dressing room and it looked exactly how you'd expect a fashion mogul's closet to look. Designer bags, racks of couture, shelves lined with heels sharp enough to kill a man — if the stilettos didn’t, the price tags definitely would.

There was a knock on my door. I turned around.

A maid knelt on the floor, head bowed so low I thought she might sprain her neck. She had a faint, fresh-looking scar on her cheek — thin like a razor cut. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun, and despite being kind of pretty, she looked like she hadn’t had a decent meal since last winter. Cheekbones practically slicing through her skin.

“Luna Marilyn, what would you like prepared for dinner?” she asked, her voice trembling like I was about to strike her down with lightning.

“What’s your name?” I asked, frowning.

“Bl… Blair. Please don’t… don’t strike me. I’m sorry about breakfast. It was an accident,” she stammered, eyes wide, voice shaky.

I blinked. Breakfast? What happened at breakfast? Oh, right. That was when she accidentally spilled juice on me.

“Blair, please stand up.”

She hesitated, then rose slowly, keeping her eyes down like I was Medusa reincarnated. I gently lifted her chin, my heart twisting a little at how terrified she looked.

“No one’s striking you. It was an accident. You’re fine,” I said softly. “And enough with the kneeling and the ‘I’m so sorry’ routine, okay? I’m not here to make your life miserable.”

Her eyes darted up, surprised.

“Make something… vegetarian-ish,” I added with a shrug. “No white meat, please.”

Her jaw practically hit the floor.

“Y-yes, Luna,” she managed, still clearly thinking I might be some kind of trap. I waved her off, and she practically bolted out of the room.

As the door clicked shut, I sighed, flopping onto the plush chair beside the vanity.

What the hell was Marilyn Maeve like to her staff?

Now they were stuck with me — clueless, curvier, and just trying not to get everyone fired.

~~~~~

I picked up the Birkin handbag and literally gasped. It felt nothing like the cheap knock-offs I used to own. This thing? It smelled like rich people and exclusivity. Forget freedom — this is what heaven feels like.

I’d been dying to strut in Jimmy Choos and Christian Louboutins, and now? The designer closet was mine. I slipped into a sleek pencil skirt, plain white blouse, and a sharp blazer. Louboutins on my feet, curves on display. I looked like the CEO of your boyfriend's dreams.

I walked out the door and right behind me, a tall, broad-shouldered man with short brown hair started following. His face was carved from stone, expression unreadable. Bodyguard vibes? Probably.

A sleek car pulled up, the door already open. Mr. Broad climbed into the passenger seat without a word.

“Work,” I announced like I was catching an Uber. Because apparently, I was now CEO-ing my way through life.

When we got to Lover Collection HQ, things… felt weird. Everyone was full-on heads-bowed, terrified kneeling. I paused at the entrance like what kind of Game of Thrones cult is this?

BNo answers. Just fear radiating off every employee as I strolled to my office — the one with my name boldly engraved on the door.

Inside, some guy walked in with coffee, his hands shaking like I was about to stab him with my heels.

“Y-Your… coffee,” he mumbled, nearly dropping the cup before bolting like his life depended on it.

I blinked. Okay…

I turned toward the massive desk. Stacks of documents waited for me — job applications for a personal assistant and… oh, designs.

I flipped through them and nearly gagged. Brown, oversized and depressing.

If this is fashion, I want no part of it.

The same shaky guy peeked in again, holding a file like it was radioactive.

“Hey,” I called, “What’s your name?”

He froze. “L-Luke.”

Poor Luke looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Avoiding eye contact, eye bags under his eyes.

“What happened to my other assistant?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

His throat bobbed. “She… she died.”

I stilled. “Died? That’s… awful.”

Luke’s eyes darted to the floor. “You instructed the gammas to… maul her… after she mixed up the launch dates for a shirt collection.”

Neptune!

I leaned back in the chair, the weight of this identity hitting me like a tidal wave. Marilyn Maeve wasn’t just feared — she was a designer-dressed nightmare.

Great. I escaped Teddy's fish tank only to inherit a whole new mess.

~~~~

That evening, after dinner, I took my sweet time in the shower, scrubbing, moisturising—everything. Tonight or tomorrow, Killian had said. I could barely breathe with the anticipation. Tonight had to be the night. The moment I’d finally be free from Teddy’s slimy grasp, no longer his exotic pet trapped in a tank.

While I waited, I snooped. Because obviously, I needed to know what kind of luxuries Marilyn was hoarding. Her diamond necklaces sparkled like they could pay off a small country’s debt. Her dresses were designer dreams. Her perfumes? Liquid temptation, but I hated the smell.

By the time midnight rolled around, I was practically pacing the room in a short, silky blue dress that definitely screamed Mark me, Daddy Alpha. Subtle? Absolutely not. But I wasn’t here for subtlety.

The door creaked open, and holy mother of Neptune, there he was. Killian strolled in, shirtless, muscles taut, his wolf tattoo stretching over his chest like it might leap off and growl at me.

His eyes drifted down my body slowly. I swallowed hard.

“Come here,” he commanded, voice deep, laced with authority that curled around my spine.

I stepped toward him, heart racing faster than my legs could carry me. He lifted my chin with two fingers, tilting my head ever so gently.

“I, Alpha Killian Smith, seal this bond with my mark,” he declared.

“I… I, Luna Marilyn Maeve… accept to be marked,” I replied, praying he couldn’t hear the nervous wreck hiding behind my fake confidence.

It almost sounded like that disgusting contract Teddy made me sign—except this? This came with power, wealth. And him.

Killian’s head dipped lower. His warm breath brushed my neck, sending goosebumps across my skin. His canines slid out. They were sharp.

The second his canines sank into my neck, I swear to every god of the seven seas—Poseidon, Neptune, Ariel’s dad, all of them—I went blank. It was the freakiest thing I'd ever experienced.

It wasn’t pain. Oh no, pain would’ve been a mercy.

It was… like every nerve in my body did a high-speed cannonball straight into a volcano, while my brain screamed, What the actual hell is happening?!

My knees buckled like cheap plastic lawn chairs. My toes curled so hard. And then… I opened my mouth, intending to gasp like a normal, mildly-träumatised fake-Luna.

But what actually came out?A møan.

Not just any møan. The siren voice møan.

The sultry, breathy, honey-laced, hell møan that could probably bankrupt kingdoms and turn grown men into panting puppies.

It slipped past my lips before I could slap a mental hand over my mouth.

And the effect on Killian? It was instant!

His entire body tensed like a loaded gun. His pupils blew wide. His grip on my waist tightened, his hands dangerously close to shredding that blue silk dress. For a second, the big, bad Alpha—Mr. Growly Grumpy himself—looked utterly, stupidly wrecked.

I know nothing about werewolf biology, but all I know is I'm in deep sh!t

I could practically feel the shift in the air. The dominance, the heat, the

wild, barely-contained urge radiating off him like a bonfire at sea. His scent shifted from minty to black currant

Oh, sh!t!