Chapter 130

Agnes

The following day, I entered the design department bright and early with my presentation prepared. The rest of the department was gathered around the table, holding cups of coffee and blinking away the remnants of sleep.

I, however, had hardly slept last night at all, and somehow I hardly even felt tired. I was too excited to present the ideas I had spent all night working on to feel sleepy.

Once I set up my presentation, I took a deep breath and began. I went through the slides over the next twenty minutes, outlining my ideas for a mother-daughter fashion line.

“The line is meant to reimagine girlhood for mothers while also creating matching pieces for daughters,” I said as I worked through the slides. “I’d like the mothers’ outfits to be versatile and appropriate for more mature events, but also fun and playful, perfect for playing dress-up or simply reigniting their love for everything girly and princesslike.”

As I displayed the rough sketches I’d spent all night working on, the team watched intently, some even taking notes. Each sketch featured a unique set, with mature yet playful outfits for the mothers and adorable matching pieces for the daughters.

“I’d like each one to have reinforced seams and double-sided fabric to reduce the risk of tearing, as well as removable cotton lining for the childrens’ outfits that can be easily washed, reducing the need to wash the outer garments.”

Maria raised her hand. “The outer fabric should be machine washable too for the kids’ clothes,” she suggested. “That way, if they face damage such as juice or grass stains, they can just be tossed in the washer and come out looking new.”

I grinned, jotting that down. “That’s a great idea, Maria,” I said, then moved to the next slide.

When I was finally finished with my presentation, the room erupted into chatter. The team seemed to love the idea, and many had their own suggestions as well.

One designer suggested making matching bags to go with each outfit, so that the outfits could be stored in a practical and cute way. Another designer suggested attaching the bows with hidden snaps so they could be worn and removed at will. Someone else made the excellent suggestion to add drawstrings under the skirts that would allow the skirt length to be adjusted by the wearer.

By the time the meeting was over, the team dispersed excitedly, each designer taking on the task of refining one of the sketches for the next round.

I made my way to my office, where I spent the rest of the day working on my own sketch, as well as sending emails to my fellow Lunas to see if anyone might be interested in endorsing this next line—and potentially even modeling it with their own children when it eventually came out on the runway.

Over the next few days, I threw myself into the project, working closely with my team to refine the designs. Thea was my biggest cheerleader, her excitement infectious as she helped me pick out fabrics and colors.

Her enthusiasm made the long hours worth it, and I found myself smiling more than I had in months.

But then, the storm hit.

It started with a podcast. One of the models who had supported Olivia during the last fashion show had apparently taken to the internet. I stumbled across it by accident, scrolling through social media late one night.

The title alone made my stomach churn: “The Truth About Agnes: Stolen Children and Stolen Lives.”

I hesitated before clicking play, my finger hovering over the screen. I knew I shouldn’t give things like this my attention, but something compelled me to listen.

And I wished I hadn’t.

“Agnes has no right to play mother,” the model said. “She’s using this poor child as a prop, a way to make herself look good. And let’s not forget about her own dead child—how convenient that she’s using that tragedy to paint herself as some kind of victim now. It’s all a show, people. A slap in the face to Olivia, who’s been fighting to be a part of her daughter’s life.”

The podcast host scoffed. “And is it true that she’s not even inviting Olivia to model the outfit with Thea? I heard rumors that she invited other Lunas to model with their daughters, but Olivia is being conveniently left out.”

“Typical,” the model sighed into the microphone. “The very least she could do is invite Olivia to model the mother-daughter outfits with her DAUGHTER. But Agnes doesn’t have that kind of decency. She’s not fit to be a Luna, let alone a mother.”

My hands trembled as I quickly shut off the podcast, tossing my phone aside.

That model didn’t know anything about the situation, I told myself. The story was completely twisted, the hate likely started by Olivia, and all of it would come to light soon once we figured out how to unmark her and get my wolf back.

But the idea that everything would suddenly get better if we did all of those things still felt far-fetched. The witch was still struggling to translate the book, and had to contact a distant ‘colleague’ to help. And besides, we still didn’t even know for certain that Olivia had been the one to do it or that Elijah was my fated mate.

It just felt like… wishful thinking.

Over the days, the hate didn’t stop. The comments and rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by Olivia’s supporters and amplified by social media.

Every time I opened my phone, there was another post, another accusation, another cruel remark. “Pick-me Luna,” they called me. “Trying too hard.” “Fake mother.”

Each word felt like a knife twisting in an old wound. I tried to keep focusing on my work, determined to make this fashion line a success despite the rumors. But it wasn’t easy, and each day became harder than the last.

Then came the day everything came to a head.

I was dropping Thea off at her violin lesson, the two of us chatting happily as we walked hand in hand to the studio. Thea was wearing one of the prototype dresses we’d been working on, the fabric swishing around her knees as she skipped beside me.

But as we approached the studio, I noticed a crowd gathered outside. At first, I thought it was just other parents waiting for their children, but then I saw the signs.

“Real Mothers Matter,” one read.

“Give Thea Back to Olivia,” said another.

My heart sank as I realized what was happening.

Thea tugged on my hand. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

I squeezed her hand tightly, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. Let’s just get you inside, okay?”

But before we could take another step, the crowd turned toward us, recognizing us immediately.

“How dare you!” a woman shouted, pointing. “You think you can just waltz in here and play mother? You’re nothing but a fraud!”

Others joined in then. “You’re tearing that family apart!” one person yelled. “Olivia is her real mother! Just accept that you lost your kid and move on!”

“Mommy…” Thea breathed. I quickly moved her behind my legs, trying to shield her.

“Let’s go home, honey,” I said, turning back the way we had come. “I think you can miss one lesson.”

Thea’s eyes widened. “But—”

“Let’s go, Thea,” I said firmly.

Thea looked heartbroken, but didn’t protest as I began to whisk her away. But when I turned, I found that the crowd had surrounded us, blocking the sidewalk.

Then, just as I felt the panic rising, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Enough!”

I turned to see Elijah striding toward us, his expression fierce as he pushed through the crowd. He reached us in seconds, his body positioning itself between me and the mob.

“Leave her alone,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “All of you.”

The crowd paused, the cold Alpha authority in Elijah’s voice making them hesitate. Elijah took his chance to scoop Thea up in one arm and grab my hand with his free one, and without another moment, he whisked us both away.

I could feel their stares long after we were out of sight.