The Sacred Luna

Chapter 9

(Sanya's POV)

The smell hits me first. Sewage. Rotten food. Something else I can't identify but makes my stomach turn violently. The water is cold and thick, clinging to my skin, my hair, my clothes, soaking through everything until I'm drenched in filth. I gag, the smell so overwhelming I can barely breathe, can barely think through the revulsion that makes my entire body want to recoil from itself.

"There," Tara says, her smile sharp and satisfied. "Now you're as dirty on the outside as you are on the inside."

I stand frozen, water dripping from my hair, from my clothes, pooling at my feet on the expensive carpet. The smell is unbearable. I want to strip off these clothes, to scrub my skin raw, to wash away every trace of this humiliation. But I can't move. I'm paralyzed by shock, by the casual cruelty of what they just did, by the realization that this is my life now. This is what I've become. A punching bag for their rage. A target for their cruelty.

"You'll do all the servants' chores today," Mira adds, circling me like a shark that's smelled blood in the water. "While covered in this filth. If anything isn't clean enough, you'll do it again. And again. Until everything is squeaky clean. By then, you should be well aware of your place in this household."

I want to scream. To fight back. To grab that bucket and throw it in their faces, to make them feel even a fraction of the humiliation they've inflicted on me. But what's the point? They're family now. My family by marriage, bound to me by vows I was forced to take, by a ceremony witnessed by many in our society. I have to endure. That's what women do in this world. We endure. We suffer in silence. We bow our heads and accept whatever treatment the men—and the women who serve them—decide we deserve.

So I keep my mouth shut. I turn away from their mocking faces. And I go to find the servants' supply closet.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of scrubbing and cleaning and trying not to vomit from the smell that clings to me like a curse. I scrub floors on my hands and knees, the dirty water from my clothes leaving streaks that I have to clean up again, creating an endless cycle of filth and cleaning that feels like it'll never end. I clean toilets until my hands are raw and red, until the chemical smell of bleach mixes with the sewage smell on my skin and creates something even worse. I wash dishes in the kitchen, the servants stepping carefully around me, their eyes full of pity but their mouths staying firmly closed because they know better than to help me, know that helping me would only bring Tara's wrath down on their heads too.

By evening, I'm exhausted. Humiliated. Broken in a way that goes deeper than physical pain. Deeper than the ache in my back or the burning in my hands. This is soul-deep exhaustion, the kind that makes you wonder if you'll ever feel whole again, if there's any part of you left that hasn't been damaged beyond repair.

I find myself in the hallway near the front door, leaning against the wall because my legs won't hold me up anymore. Every part of me is screaming for rest but I know there won't be any rest tonight, won't be any mercy or kindness or even basic human decency.

So I close my eyes and pray to the Creator, the words forming silently in my mind because I don't have the strength to speak them aloud.

Please. Show me a way out of this. I can't keep living like this. I don't have the strength to endure this anymore. Please. If you're there. If you're listening. Please help me.

The doorbell rings.

The sound cuts through my prayer, sharp and unexpected. I open my eyes. Look toward the door. The servants are all busy in other parts of the house, and I'm the closest, so I suppose it falls to me to answer it. I push myself away from the wall, my body protesting every movement, as I shuffle for the door.

When I finally get there, and open it, my heart nearly stops.

"Aaron?"

He looks the same. The same dark hair that always fell across his forehead no matter how many times he pushed it back. Same warm brown eyes that used to look at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered. The same gentle smile that made my heart flutter the first time I saw it and every time after. Same lean build, same way of standing with his weight slightly on his left foot.

For a moment, I'm transported back to our college days, to stolen moments in the library, to whispered promises under the stars, to a time when I believed love was real and forevers actually lasted.

But there's something different about him too. Something I can't quite name. He's wearing white dress pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. His eyes hold a depth they didn't have before, a weight, like he's carrying secrets too heavy for one person to bear. His skin has an almost ethereal quality to it, as if he's not quite solid, not quite real. And the way he's looking at me—it's not just gentle anymore. It's serene. Tranquil.

But there's also a haunted look to their depth I can't place.

I must be hallucinating.

Aaron can't be here.

He abandoned me. Left me standing on that empty road with my suitcase and my hopes and my heart shattered.

He never called. Never came to find me. He just disappeared from my life like I meant nothing to him, like all our plans and promises were just pretty lies he told to pass the time.

"Sanya. I'm here to fix everything."

And just like that, the shock breaks. The numbness shatters. And rage explodes in my chest like a bomb that's been waiting to detonate.