MONICA

I stood in the shadows of the arched gallery, my fingers digging so hard into the velvet of my robe until the seams strained under my grip. The stone floor was cold beneath my bare feet, but I didn't care. The heat of my own fury was enough to keep me burning.

Greenwood had left me. He had pulled out of me, dismissed me, and ran to that decrepit old woman in a cowl as if I were nothing more than a temporary distraction. For five years, I had been the perfect Luna. I had dressed the part, played the part, and scrubbed every trace of that woman from...