Chapter 12: Fractured Walls

Luna couldn't sleep, her mind a restless battlefield of anxieties and unwelcome memories. 

She lay in bed, staring at the dimly lit ceiling, the darkness amplifying the suffocating feeling of vulnerability, the weight of the night pressing down on her like a physical burden. Beside her, Killian lay still, his breathing slow and even. 

Too still. Too perfect. 

As if he wasn't really asleep either, but merely pretending, just like he pretended so many other things, hiding his true emotions behind a carefully constructed facade of indifference. 

Her chest ached with a dull, persistent pain, a mixture of frustration and longing, and she hated that it did, hated the vulnerability it exposed. Hated that despite everything—despite knowing exactly the kind of calculated, loveless marriage she had walked into, the terms and conditions clearly laid out—there was still a sliver of something deep inside her, a flicker of hope she had desperately tried to extinguish, that wished things were different, that yearned for a connection she knew was impossible. 

She turned her back to him, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance between them, pulling the silk blanket higher, as if that could somehow shield her from the relentless thoughts swirling in her mind, the doubts and fears that gnawed at her composure. 

Celeste Monroe. 

The name itself, a whisper from the past, was enough to make her stomach twist with a bitter jealousy she refused to acknowledge. She wasn't a fool, blinded by naivete. She had seen the flicker of something in Killian's eyes, an unguarded moment, when he spoke about his former fiancée, a ghost from a life she had never been a part of. Maybe not love, not anymore, but definitely something unresolved, a lingering connection, a shared history that bound them together in ways she couldn't comprehend. Something 

Luna didn't want to admit she cared about, something that threatened the fragile equilibrium she had so carefully constructed.

A bitter chuckle escaped her lips before she could stop it. "Funny, isn't it?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.

But Killian heard.

"What is?" his voice was rough, laced with exhaustion, yet he was clearly awake.

Luna hesitated, then let out a soft breath. "How ironic it is that I'm the one wearing your last name, yet I'm the one who feels like an outsider in your life."

Killian shifted slightly, but he didn't speak right away. When he did, his voice was unreadable. "You knew what this marriage was, Luna."

She clenched her jaw, closing her eyes. "I know. I just didn't think it would feel this empty."

Silence stretched between them, a heavy, suffocating presence in the dimly lit room. Luna bit the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit she had never quite managed to break, hating herself for even admitting that much, for exposing a vulnerability she had vowed to keep hidden. She wasn't supposed to care, wasn't supposed to yearn for something more, something deeper, from a man who had made it abundantly clear that their marriage was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated transaction.

But she did.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to regain composure. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

She shifted to move, but before she could, Killian spoke again, his voice lower this time. "Do you regret it?"

Luna's breath hitched. She knew what he was asking. Did she regret marrying him? Did she regret being tied to a man who would never be hers?

She should have said yes.

"No." The word slipped out before she could stop it.

She felt his gaze on her, and for a moment, she thought he might say something—something real, something unguarded. But the moment passed, and he only let out a quiet exhale before turning onto his back again.

"Get some sleep, Luna."

She let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Yeah. Right."

But they both knew sleep wouldn't come easily.

—

The next morning, Luna forced herself into the familiar rhythm of her routine, the comforting predictability a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil of the night before. 

She had always been exceptionally good at compartmentalizing, at masking her true emotions behind a carefully constructed facade of indifference, at pretending that everything was perfectly under control. If Killian could master the art of detachment, then so could she. 

She was already dressed in a sleek, professional pantsuit, her armor for the day, when she walked into the spacious dining area, expecting to have breakfast alone, as was their usual custom. 

Instead, she found Killian already seated at the long, polished table, his attention focused intently on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. He barely spared her a glance, a fleeting acknowledgment of her presence, as she entered the room, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Good. That was good. She didn't want to deal with him.

She took a seat across from him, her hands curling around her coffee cup. The silence between them was deafening. It wasn't until she set her spoon down a little too forcefully that he finally looked at her.

"Something on your mind?" he asked, his tone unreadable.

Luna smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Not at all. You?"

He studied her for a moment before shaking his head. "No."

Lies.

But she wouldn't call him out on it. If he wanted to pretend, she would too.

The tension in the air thickened, becoming almost palpable, and Luna hated the way it coiled around her, tightening its grip, making it difficult to breathe. 

She was about to manufacture an excuse to leave, to escape the suffocating silence, when Killian's phone buzzed insistently on the table, shattering the fragile peace. 

She glanced at it out of habit, a subconscious reflex—only for her stomach to twist into a knot of anxiety at the name flashing on the screen, a name that brought with it a wave of unwelcome memories.

Celeste Monroe.

Killian picked up his phone, answering it without hesitation. "Yeah?"

Luna's grip tightened on her coffee cup as she forced herself to remain still, to act indifferent. But as she listened to Killian's voice—calm, composed, too familiar—she felt something crack deep inside her.

She didn't want to care.

But damn it, she did.