HER HIDDEN LEGACY: FOX, VAMPIRE, WEREWOLF.

Chapter 1: From tips to fates. LUNA POV If hell had a smell, I was convinced it would be a mixture of stale beer, burnt suya, and regret—the exact scent that clung to my skin as I trudged out of Lunar Moon Bar & Grill at exactly 3:07 a.m. My name’s Luna, which is almost poetic, considering the mess I was born into. The irony isn't lost on me—named after the moon, yet grounded by bills. And debt. And broken dreams. I wasn’t always this tired girl scraping tips in a backstreet bar just to afford powdered garri and small sachets of milk. Once, I was a child who laughed easily in a warm home—until death knocked on the door and took both my parents without asking for ID. I guess that’s where it all started: the slow spiral. 🍽 Work, Sweat, and 2,000 Naira Tips The bar was loud, sweaty, and full of men who smelled like they hadn’t met soap since the last fuel subsidy. I wore the uniform: a too-tight black dress that did nothing to protect me from lewd stares and wandering hands. My curly ginger hair was tied up into a messy bun, and no matter how many times I told myself I’d get a trim, I never had the money for such luxuries. It fell past my waist in waves I neither appreciated nor had the energy to style. My skin—melanin kissed and glowing on a good day—was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. My sky-blue eyes, the one thing that usually got compliments, were dulled from exhaustion. Tonight, I’d earned ₦2,000 in tips. Two whole thousand naira for six hours of serving pepper soup, dodging drunk uncles, and washing trays. Add that to the ₦3,000 the owner paid me per shift (after many threats), and I had a grand total of ₦5,000. Enough for transport, dinner for two days, and—if I skipped breakfast again—maybe an extra data bundle. You’d think someone working every night could afford a little peace. Wrong. 🏚 My Haunted House (Not the Good Kind) I lived in the house my parents left behind. It used to be a beautiful two-bedroom bungalow with white walls, flowering plants, and a little gate that creaked when it rained. Now? It looked like the set of a low-budget horror movie. Cracks ran like veins down the walls, and the windows rattled in their frames. The roof leaked. The power was unstable. The only light came from a rechargeable lamp I prayed wouldn’t die in the middle of the night. And the worst part? The silence. Silence that reminded me they were gone. That I was alone. That the weight of the world sat squarely on my slim shoulders, and no one was coming to help me carry it. I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my dress, and sat in the small corner of the room I called my “thinking spot,” aka the cracked stool beside the window. I counted my money like it was sacred, folded it into an envelope, and tucked it under my pillow—the same one I cried into when things got too real. I owed ₦320,000. Debt from school, from trying to stay afloat, from helping Auntie Ruth’s hospital bills (auntie who disappeared the moment I couldn’t give her more money), and from a loan shark who texted me daily with charming messages like "Your time is ticking, Luna.” Charming. 📚 Dreams and a Locked Gate I used to want to be something—anything. A teacher, a writer, maybe even a journalist. But tuition fees had a funny way of killing dreams. I hadn’t been to class in almost six months. I couldn’t afford the next installment, and after a while, the school locked me out. Literally. The security guard had looked at me with pity the last time I showed up. I had no laptop. No wifi. No time. Just hunger, bills, and a never-ending fear that I’d die in my sleep, not from sickness, but from stress. And then came him. 🐺 The Stranger with the Ruthless Eyes It was on that particularly gloomy morning, around 4 a.m., when I heard a knock at the door. Who knocks at that hour? I tiptoed barefoot, clutching a frying pan (don’t laugh—it was all I had), and opened the door just a crack. There he was. Tall. Blond. Dressed like someone who belonged in a high-budget fantasy movie—not the rundown neighborhood where I lived. His eyes glowed green. I blinked. Literally glowed. I assumed it was sleep deprivation. “Luna,” he said, voice deep and calm, but with something sharp beneath it. “You smell like foxfire.” I blinked again. “I smell like what?” He didn’t smile. Instead, he stepped forward, pushing the door wide open like he owned the air between us. “You’re mine.” “Okay, buddy, I think you’ve confused me with someone else. Maybe a girl from your werewolf roleplay club?” Wrong choice of words. He leaned in, nostrils flaring. “I am a werewolf.” I laughed. Loudly. “Good one. What’s next? You sparkle in the sun?” He didn’t respond. He just… stared. Like I was something precious. Like he’d found water in a desert. And suddenly I couldn’t breathe. There was something wild in his eyes. Something hungry. “I’ve waited my whole life for you,” he said. “Now that I’ve found you, I’m never letting you go.” “Sir, this is a Wendy’s.” He growled. Growled. Like a deep, rumbling sound that made my skin tingle and my heart skip in ways it shouldn’t have. I took a step back. “Look, I don’t know what kind of rich-person game this is, but I have work, and I can’t afford to be kidnapped today.” He blinked slowly, tilted his head, and whispered, “Who said anything about kidnapping?” He reached into his coat and pulled out a file. A literal file. Inside: details of my debt. My school fees. My landlord's overdue notices. Even my power bill. “You’ve been watched,” he said. “Protected. Hidden.” My hands shook. “Who are you?” He stepped closer, his hand brushing mine. Sparks flew. Not metaphorical ones. Real, visible sparks. My skin glowed faintly. I jumped back. “I’m your mate,” he said. “And you’re not just a girl, Luna. You’re the heir of fire and shadow. A royal. A hybrid of the foxblood and vampire throne.” “W—what?” He smiled. Finally. And Lord, that smile. “I’ve paid your debt,” he added like it was nothing. “Your school fees too. You’re coming with me.” “Why? Why would you do that? You don’t know me!” “I do. My wolf recognized you before I did. And now that I have you, I’ll fight hell to keep you.” I blinked, still in my oversized shirt and fuzzy socks, wondering how my broke, hopeless night turned into a werewolf prince fantasy. “You’re insane,” I whispered. He tilted his head. “Possibly. But you’re still coming with me.” I didn’t move. Until he said, softer now, “You’ve suffered enough. Let me take care of you.” And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel tired. I felt… seen. Maybe insane. Maybe stupid. But also curious. So I nodded. And the story truly began.