Chapter 166

Iris

Within a matter of days, my approval ratings have dropped another twelve points, according to the morning news.

“It’s been less than six months since her debut as Alpha President Arthur’s Luna and she’s already nearing the forties,” the commentator, a blonde woman wearing a stark white pencil dress, is saying with barely concealed glee.

The other commentator, a man in a suit, shakes his head although his mouth is tugging upward into a smirk. “What a shame. She had such a strong start, but alas… It seems she’s simply not cut out for this.”

“Some people claim it’s because she wasn’t raised in the public eye like Selina.”

“Yeah, well, I say some people are simply capable of this life and some people aren’t.”

“That’s harsh, don’t you think?”

“Harsh, perhaps,” the man replies, “but it’s true. She should just step away from the public and go back to making art.”

I rub my eyes, cursing under my breath. Every news channel is talking about the gala and the press conference and every other little fucking thing I say and do, as if my public humiliation is the most entertaining story of the week.

And I suppose it is. I am Arthur’s mate, after all. The future Luna of Ordan.

Completely unfit for this life, and crashing out for everyone to see.

With an indignant huff, I turn off the TV and stare at the blank screen, seeing my own reflection looking back at me. I barely recognize myself anymore. The woman staring back at me has dark circles under her eyes and a permanent crease between her brows. She doesn’t look like someone who should be the Luna of anything, let alone an entire country.

Despite Veronica swooping in to save me at that press conference, the damage has been done. No, not just done—it’s gotten worse. The headlines have somehow been even more brutal than the news.

“VERONICA STEPS IN TO SAVE FLOUNDERING IRIS WILLFORD!”

“IS IRIS WILLFORD FIT TO BE LUNA?”

And then there’s my personal favorite: “WOLFLESS WONDER: WHY ORDAN DESERVES BETTER.”

I’ve read the articles even though I know I shouldn’t. They all say the same thing—that I’m weak, unprepared, unsuitable. That I’m dragging Arthur down. That Veronica would be a better match for him, a better Luna for Ordan.

And the worst part about all of this nonsense is the fact that I’m starting to think they’re right.

Maybe if I were just a wealthy Willford heiress, I could at least live privately like the rest of my family. My parents rarely make the news. Caleb, despite being the Supreme Judge of Ordan, appears in society pages occasionally, and only when he wants to.

But as Arthur’s Luna, I’m constantly in the public eye, constantly being judged. And I’m constantly falling short of everyone’s expectations.

As the days pass, a vicious little voice in my head begins to make me believe that maybe Arthur would be better off with Veronica. His other mate.

The thought makes me sick, but I can’t deny it. She’s eloquent.Graceful. Confident. She’s everything Ordan could ever want and more, and all I ever do is piss off the people who are supposed to love me.

However, I know I can’t sit here all day, so I make my way upstairs to my studio and do what I know best: paint my feelings. The news anchors were right about one thing, at least.

I turn on some classical music and set up a fresh canvas, larger than my usual size, and lose myself in my art. I don’t plan what I’m painting; I just let my hands and heart and the music guide me. Black and red, chaotic patterns, harsh lines. It’s more violent than my usual process, but I figure it will help me work through whatever’s going on inside.

Hours pass, and when I finally step back to look at what I’ve created, I’m startled by the image staring back at me.

It’s me, or a version of me, standing alone on a dark stage. My head is in my hands, and I’ve painted dozens of tiny eyes, watching, judging me from the shadows. Each set of eyes is paired with a grotesque mouth, some laughing, some sneering, all hateful.

I didn’t mean to paint this. It just… happened. And it’s horrifying.

Frustrated, I tear that canvas to shreds with my box cutter, tossing the pieces in the trash, and start a new one. It feels wasteful, but I don’t even want to look at that monstrosity for another moment, let alone try to paint over it.

This time, I try something different—a landscape from the ranch, maybe, or an abstract piece. But somehow, I end up with almost the same painting.

Only this time, the figure in the center is smaller and more pathetic. The dress she’s wearing is too big for her, hanging off her frame, and her limbs are frail and bony. Hell, even her skin seems to be loose and pallid.

And so I try a third canvas. And then a fourth. Each time, the same themes emerge.

“Fuck this,” I finally mutter, grabbing a thick brush and loading it with white paint. I slash it across the canvas, obliterating everything I’ve just done. I strike again and again, gritting my teeth, splattering white paint all over myself and the surrounding area.

But it doesn’t even cover the image. The paint is still wet, so it just turns everything into a brown smear, and somehow I swear I can still see those hateful eyes watching me from beneath it all.

By the time I’m finished, breathless and angry, all I’ve managed to do is make a mess and rile myself up.

And now I just feel worse—like I’ve just proven how unstable I am. A real Luna wouldn’t lose control like this. A real Luna would handle criticism with grace. A real Luna would be more like…

I can’t even finish the thought. It hurts too much.

With a soft sigh, I check the time—it’s almost three o’clock. Miles will be home from school soon. So I clean up as best I can, washing the paint from my hands and changing out of my stained smock.

By the time I hear the front door open, I’ve managed to compose myself into some semblance of normalcy.

“Mommy!” Miles calls, his backpack thumping to the floor in the foyer. “I made something for you!”

I force a smile as he runs into the kitchen, waving a sheet of construction paper. “What’s this, little wolf?”

He proudly presents his artwork; it’s a family portrait drawn in crayon. There’s Arthur, who is so big he nearly doesn’t fit on the paper. Then there’s Miles in the middle, slightly taller than he should be. And me, my hair a mess of brown scribbles and a smile on my face.

“It’s us,” he says with a grin. “My teacher said to draw what makes us happy, and you and Daddy make me happy.”

His words make me crack inside, and without thinking, I drop to a crouch and pull Miles into a bone-crushing hug. He gasps for breath over my shoulder, his tiny hands patting my back.

“You okay, Mommy?” he chokes out.

“Yes. Your drawing beautiful,” I manage, blinking my tears away before pulling back. I pinch his cheek and kiss his nose. “I love it. And I love you.”

“I know. Can we have cookies now?”

I laugh despite myself, but then suddenly have an idea. “How about we bring cookies to the orphanage today?”