The Unwanted Luna's Defiant Second Chance

Alys's POV: The heavy oak doors of the main hall swung open. A gust of cold, damp air swept in, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow.

My fiancé, Alpha Darius Vanderbilt, had returned from the borderlands at last. He had been gone for six months.

Six months of whispers—rumors that his heart lay elsewhere, in the North, with someone who held his attention while I waited in silence. The wedding had been set for last spring.

Then, without explanation, he had postponed it. A "delay due to unrest," his letter claimed.

But everyone knew the truth: Alpha Darius Vanderbilt did not want to marry Alys Kensington. He was bound to me by treaty, and he was dragging his feet at every opportunity.

He was flanked by two guards, their faces grim and weathered. Darius himself looked carved from the northern mountains he commanded.

His dark hair was dusted with grime, his military coat marked by a long journey. My family stood in a respectful line. My father, Richard Kensington, at the head.

My mother, Catherine, beside him. As his fiancée, I was positioned at the very front, my smile a brittle mask. I had spent six months telling myself this time would be different.

That he would finally see me. That I would walk into this hall and feel hope, not dread. I was a fool. Darius's iceblue eyes swept across the welcoming party.

They passed over my father with a flicker of acknowledgement, over my mother with cool respect, and then... slid over me. Nothing. No recognition.

The look one gives to a piece of furniture. The sting was immediate and sharp.

After six months of silence, after making me wait for a wedding he clearly had no intention of attending—how dare he look through me as if I were invisible?

Anger flared, hot and sudden, but I swallowed it down. My hands trembled with the effort. And yet, beneath the anger, a strange, unsettling familiarity washed over me.

The way his eyes skipped over me, the precise tilt of his head—it was as though I had stood in this exact moment before.

The memory was hazy, like a dream I couldn't grasp, but it left a hollow ache in my chest. The anger warred with that ache. I wanted to scream at him.

I wanted to demand why he kept me dangling. I wanted to weep. I did neither. I smiled. I forced my hands to unclench.

My nails had dug crescents into my palms. "Richard," Darius said, his voice a low baritone devoid of emotion.

He nodded to my father. "The skirmishes in the Redwood sector have been contained.

Their supply lines are cut." "Excellent news," my father replied. "Your efficiency is, as always, unparalleled." They discussed troop movements and border patrols.

I was left standing there, a decorative statue. The perfect, silent fiancée. I could feel the pitying glances of the household staff on my back. Pity.

That was what I had been reduced to. The humiliation burned, but I held my ground. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

I dropped my gaze to the marble floor, focusing on the patterns to keep myself grounded. My fingers found the moonshaped silver pendant at my neck.

Finally, their discussion wound down. "I will be departing tonight," Darius announced. "I must return before the first heavy snows block the northern pass." The air shifted.

Even my father looked surprised. A visit this brief was an insult. And there it was. The second blow. He was leaving tonight—barely hours after arriving.

He had not even acknowledged our engagement, discussed the wedding that had been postponed for nearly a year. He was running from me, from us, from a duty he clearly resented.

Something inside me fractured. Not visibly—I was too welltrained for that—but a quiet, violent crack in my chest. I was not just a treaty.

I was a woman with a beating heart, and he was crushing it with every cold step. But my breath caught for a different reason. This was my cue. I took a small step forward.

As I opened my mouth, I realized with a sickening lurch that I already knew what I was about to say—and how he would answer.

The words rose unbidden, as if someone else had written them long ago. I hated how desperate I sounded. I hated that I was about to beg. But I had to try.

One more time. "Darius," I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "May I come with you?" He finally looked at me. Really looked. His eyes held cold, impatient scrutiny. A problem.

A nuisance. The look on his face—barely concealed irritation—cut deeper than any rejection. I was an inconvenience. Something to be dealt with and dismissed.

My pride screamed at me to walk away, to salvage whatever dignity I had left.

But I stayed frozen, because some traitorous part of me still hoped. "The North is harsh as winter approaches," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It is no place for you." The rejection was swift, public, absolute.

I felt not surprise but a hollow confirmation. I had heard those exact words before—every syllable. The memory was smudged, like ink washed by rain.

But I knew, with a bonedeep certainty, that this was not the first time he had refused me in this very hall. The humiliation coiled in my stomach like a serpent.

I had humiliated myself in front of everyone—all for nothing. For the same cold dismissal I should have expected. The anger that had simmered beneath my composure flared whitehot.

I hated him. In that moment, I truly hated him for making me feel so small. For never giving me a single reason to believe I mattered. Heat flooded my cheeks.

A faint titter from one of my younger cousins. My mother's hand tightened on my father's arm, a flash of anger in her eyes, but she said nothing.

I lowered my eyes. "I see," I whispered, retreating. "I was inconsiderate." He had already turned back to my father. I was dismissed.

The rest of the evening was a blur of formality. At dinner, I sat beside him, the space between us a frozen chasm. He didn't speak to me. He didn't look at me.

Each silent moment was a fresh wound. I picked at my food, my appetite gone, my mind a storm of conflicting emotions. Anger. Shame. Loneliness.

And beneath it all, that haunting familiarity—the sense that I had done this before, felt this before, been broken by this before. Why could I not remember?

And why did it feel like remembering was the only thing that could save me?

Alys POV: A few days after Darius's departure, my mother decided I needed a distraction. "Just a small garden party, darling," Catherine had said, her voice laced with a determined cheerfulness. "Fresh air and the company of your friends will do you good." So here I was, standing by the ornamental lake in our family's sprawling gardens, a glass of untouched lemonade in my hand.

The party was in full swing behind me—the light chatter of young noblewomen, the clink of glasses, the soft strains of a string quartet.

My best friend, Isabelle Beaumont, stood beside me, her brow furrowed with worry.

Her fiery red hair was a stark contrast to my own pale blonde. "He's an absolute brute, Alys," she muttered, her voice low and furious. "An Alpha he may be, but he has the manners of a rogue.

To treat you like that... in your own home!" I managed a weak, bitter smile. "It's just his way, Izzy." "Well, his way is appalling," she huffed, fiercely loyal.

I knew she meant well, but her anger couldn't touch the deep, cold numbness inside me. The rejection still stung, raw and fresh, and I had no idea what to do about it.

The whispers started. A small group of girls, huddled near a rose bush, cast furtive glances in my direction.

Their voices were low, but in the still afternoon air, words drifted. "...heard he has a woman in the North..." "...a commoner, some say, but he's utterly devoted..." "...that's why he never brings Lady Alys to the Vanderbilt estate.

Can you imagine the scandal?" Each word was a poisoned dart. I had heard such rumors before, but I never knew if they were true.

Still, they cut deep—because deep down, I feared they might be. The thought of Darius caring for another woman while I remained a dutybound stranger to him was almost unbearable.

The air grew thick, unbreathable.

My lungs felt tight, my stomach churning with a sick mix of old pain and fresh humiliation. "I need some air," I murmured to Isabelle, setting my glass down.

I escaped the main party, walking down a secluded stonepaved path that wound along the edge of the lake.

It led to a small, elevated stone platform, a sort of private balcony overlooking the deepest part of the water. The late autumn sun glittered on the surface, deceptively peaceful.

I gripped the cold stone balustrade, my knuckles white. The whispers, the crushing weight of my fate—it was all too much.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. "Lady Kensington?" The voice behind me was soft, deferential. "You look pale. May I fetch you a glass of water?" I turned.

A young woman in a servant's uniform stood there, her face a mask of gentle concern.

I vaguely recognized her—Brandi Hicks, a distant cousin on my mother's side, taken in by the family and given a position in the household.

Something about her face made me uneasy, a flicker of discomfort I couldn't place, but I dismissed it as nerves. "Thank you, Brandi," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I'm quite alright." I needed to leave.

Now. I turned to walk past her, back toward the safety of the party.

But she stepped into my path, her smile never wavering. "It's a shame what they're saying," she said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "Those gossiping hens.

The Alpha is a great man. He would never be unfaithful to you." Her eyes, however, held a glint of something sharp and malicious. She was enjoying this. She was twisting the knife.

I just gave her a cold look and tried to move around her.

As I brushed past, her body "stumbled." It was a clumsy, theatrical movement, but the hand that shot out was anything but accidental.

It slammed into the center of my back with brutal, shocking force. My breath left me in a whoosh. My feet left the ground.

For a horrifying, weightless second, I was airborne, my body tipping backward over the low balustrade. The last thing I saw was Brandi's face.

The mask of concern had vanished, replaced by a triumphant, ugly sneer. Then the world became a rush of green and blue before the icy shock of the water hit me.

It was a physical blow, knocking the last bit of air from my lungs. The cold was a living thing, seeping into my bones, paralyzing me.

My heavy dress dragged me down, a silken shroud pulling me into the dark, silent depths. I thrashed, but my limbs were sluggish, useless. Panic clawed at my throat.

Water filled my mouth, my nose. My vision blurred. The cheerful music of the party became a distorted, underwater thrum.

And then, the memories came—not vague premonitions, but a complete, brutal flood. I saw it all: this was not my first life. I had already lived this exact timeline once before.

I had drowned in this very lake, been pulled out halfdead, then sent away to Rosewood Cottage on the Vanderbilt estate.

Darius had visited me only once, his eyes cold with annoyance at the trouble I had caused.

I had wasted away for years, lonely and forgotten, until I died at twentyfour with no one by my side.

I remembered every tear, every humiliation, every slow, bitter year of my exile.

And suddenly, I understood why I had felt so unsettled all along— that nagging sense that I had heard those whispers before, were not imagination.

They were echoes of a life I had already lived. The Moon Goddess had sent me back, but the memories had been locked away until the very moment I nearly drowned again.

Now they were mine, sharp and unshakeable. Darkness consumed me. A violent cough wracked my body. I gasped, spitting out a lungful of foul lake water.

I was on my back, on the grass, the sky a dizzying blue above me.I saw a blurry figure swaying in front of me.

The impact of falling into the water made it impossible for me to make out who it was; I could only make out that it was a man's figure.

Then, my father pushed the blurry figure aside. "Alys! Alys, thank the Goddess!" My father's face swam into view, his features tight with terror.

He was patting my back, his movements frantic. People were screaming. Isabelle was sobbing my name. My mind was a maelstrom. Two lives, two timelines crashed together.

The full memory of my death, and the full memory of my life leading up to this exact moment. They weren't separate anymore. They were one.

I was whole—and I now knew that I had been reborn from the start of this life, though I had not understood it until this moment.

A shudder went through me, so violent it felt like my bones were rattling. It wasn't from the cold. It was from the sheer, terrifying power of the knowledge I now possessed.

The Moon Goddess hadn't just given me a second chance. She had waited until the moment of my first death to unlock the memories I needed to avert my second one.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, my wet hair plastered to my face. My gaze swept through the panicked crowd, past my crying mother, past my terrified friends.

My eyes locked onto a single figure. Brandi Hicks. Standing there, her hands pressed to her mouth in a perfect pantomime of shock, her face pale with feigned horror.

But I could see the flicker of fury and fear in her eyes. Her plan had failed. I was alive. This time, I knew who my enemy was.

I knew her motive—I had accidentally stumbled upon her affair with a married groundskeepers, and she had silenced me. And this time, I knew exactly what I had to do.

I would not repeat the same steps. I would expose her here, in front of everyone, before she could twist the story.

Ignoring my mother's frantic cries, I lifted a trembling, waterlogged hand. I pointed directly at Brandi.

My voice was a raw, ragged whisper, but in the sudden hush, it carried across the lawn like a death sentence. "It was her," I choked out. "She pushed me."