Once His Rejected Luna

The house was quiet—too quiet. Not the kind of quiet you get from peace, but the kind that makes the air heavy. Even a graveyard has the sound of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the chirp of a lone bird. Here, nothing. Just silence pressing against my ears.

Alex’s car sat in the driveway, gleaming under the faint afternoon light. He was home. Of course he was. He was always “home” now, locked away in his study, shutting me out like a stranger. I stepped inside, my heels echoing on the marble, and dropped my handbag on the hallway console. My eyes swept across the living room, and my chest tightened. Once upon a time, this house had been alive. Our laughter had bounced off these walls. Our whispers had filled the corners. Now it was just… dead.

I walked slowly to my room, each step like walking back through memories I wanted to forget. I remembered the way Alex used to look at me—soft eyes, warm hands, a man who couldn’t keep his distance. I remembered thinking we were blessed, chosen even. Everyone had called us perfect. I had believed it.

But perfection doesn’t rot overnight. It decays slowly, like fruit left on a windowsill. The rot had a name. Carmen.

He had told me about her once, like it was a harmless story. His old lover. His great love. But he had insisted he was over her, as if saying it enough times would make it true. And then she came back, and everything shifted. His eyes, once bright with adoration, turned cold—clinical even—when they met mine. Sometimes I caught disgust flickering there. Sometimes, worse, indifference.

I wasn’t the kind to point fingers, but my mind wouldn’t stop circling back to her. It was like Carmen had come to reclaim something. And Alex… he had let her.

I sighed, toes aching as I kicked off my shoes. Another day of silence, another day of pretending I was fine. He said nothing was wrong. He said he was busy. He said a lot of things. None of them explained why I still wasn’t his Luna. We’d been on the brink of it, and then—two days before Carmen’s return—he stopped. He postponed it. Again and again, until I stopped asking.

I stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was paranoid. Maybe he really was just busy. My brain ran circles of maybes until something snapped me back—a sound. Soft at first, almost imagined. Then clearer.

A moan.

A woman’s moan.

My heart stopped.

No. Not that. Please not that.

I sat up, listening hard. The sound came again, muffled but unmistakable. My palms grew damp. For a second, I couldn’t move. My whole body trembled like it knew the truth before my mind did.

Then I was on my feet, moving before I could stop myself, my pulse in my throat.

Please be a dream. Please be a dream.

I stopped at his door, holding my breath. The moan was louder now, and my stomach churned. The voice wasn’t just any voice. It was familiar. Too familiar.

Carmen.

I froze, nails digging into my palms. Tears burned behind my eyes. My best friend. My husband. My bed. My world tilting.

I pushed the door open.

Nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the sight.

Alex, half-dressed, tangled with Carmen on the very bed we had once shared. Her hair spilled over his chest. Her fingers trailed his skin. She turned her head toward me and smiled like this was a game she’d won.

“Carmen?” My voice cracked. She didn’t even flinch.