---- Yelena crossed her arms and huffed, tugging on the hem of her glittering pink dress. "You work five jobs, and you still can't afford even the thread of this dress," she muttered. "Aunt Lily is better. She gives me anew one every time we meet. My closet at the Alpha Villa is already full." Tears welled in my eyes-not from her words, but from the coldness in them. My daughter had once called me her moon. Now, she barely looked at me. "So you agree with her, Yeats?" I asked quietly. "You think I'm lying? That my pain isn't real?" He shrugged. "You've never studied medicine. If you were going to fake something, you should've picked a more believable condition." He turned away as if I weren't even worth the breath. Then, with rehearsed nonchalance, he added, "By the way-this place? This den? I own it. The buildings around here are too. The landlord you contacted? He's my Beta. If you stop pretending, call him. He'll move you somewhere better. Maybe you can watch the ---- sunrise and moonset-whatever helps you feel special again." The door slammed behind them, leaving me in silence. Islumped to the floor, too numb to cry. My legs couldn't even hold me anymore. It was alla lie. Yeats had never lost his position. Yelena had recovered a lot from silver poisoning. The den I had worked myself to the bone to afford... belonged to Yeats. But my suffering? That was real. My sacrifice? Real. The years I gave them? All real. That night, I didn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling, heart hollow. At dawn, I messaged my parents and packed my luggage. I left that fake den behind. But when I stepped outside, I found myself surrounded by a mob. Strangers. Dozens of them. ---- They jeered at me, holding signs and throwing stones. Buckets of red paint splashed over my body. "You think a helper can be Luna? What a joke!" "Alpha Yeats belongs with Lily!" "You're ugly! Have you seen yourself?" "Beat her! She's delusional!" Rocks sliced my skin. My arms, my forehead- bleeding and burning with pain. I stumbled back, trying to escape. My phone trembled in my hands as I called the only number I could: the landlord. Yeats's Beta. The line clicked. "Help me," I cried. "Tell Yeats-please-there are mobs outside, throwing stones. I'm bleeding-" Iheard voices on the other end. Yeats. 'What the hell, Jasmin?" he barked. "You live in the