Read Novel Full Chapter 809: Luna’s Journey
Chapter 809: Luna’s Journey
[Girl Who Had Everything Except Warmth]
Luna Valentina had always been told she was lucky.
Not in a jealous way. Not in a must-be-nice way. In that casual, dismissive tone people used when they wanted to end a conversation without thinking too hard about it.
You’re lucky.Like that explained everything.
And on paper, she absolutely was.
Her parents had money. Not buy-a-private-island-and-name-it-after-the-dog money, but enough that bills were invisible and groceries just... appeared. The fridge was always full. The lights were always on. She never had to choose between gas and lunch or pretend she wasn’t hungry because it was cheaper to skip meals.
That kind of rich. The quiet kind. The kind that pretended it was normal and expected gratitude in exchange.
Her mother was the director of Mercy Hospital.
Which meant power.
Not the loud kind. Not the flashy kind. The institutional kind. The kind that made nurses straighten their backs and lower their voices when she walked by. The kind that turned conversations into favors, favors into leverage, and leverage into silence. The kind that didn’t need to threaten because everyone already knew what would happen if you disappointed her.
Doors opened for Luna because of that title. Mouths closed because of it too.
Her father was... present on paper.
He existed as a voice on speakerphone, always mid-flight, always apologizing for missing something important and promising to make it up to her next time. He was a blur of suitcases and hotel rooms and vague affection delivered through emojis and wire transfers.
Emotionally, he was like a ghost with a credit card.
Luna went to the right schools. Wore the right clothes. Drove the right car. Smiled at the right people. She did all the things a good daughter was supposed to do—the kind that looked impressive in Christmas letters and alumni newsletters.
And she was completely, painfully alone.
Not the dramatic kind of alone. Not sobbing-on-the-floor or blasting sad music alone.
The quiet kind.
The kind that settled into your bones so slowly you didn’t notice until one day you realized you couldn’t remember the last time someone hugged you without expecting something in return. The kind where compliments felt hollow, like applause from people who hadn’t actually watched the performance. The kind where you smiled automatically and felt nothing underneath it.
Her mother loved her the way CEOs loved quarterly reports.
Results mattered. Optics mattered. Feelings were inefficient.
Every achievement was expected. Every mistake was a failure of discipline. Praise came with conditions. Criticism came wrapped in professional language—just constructive feedback, just pushing you to be your best.
Love, in the Valentina household, was transactional.
Her father opted out entirely. He funded her existence and considered his job done. If neglect were an Olympic sport, he’d have won gold and still missed the ceremony.
So, Luna learned early what not to expect.
She was beautiful—she knew that. She wasn’t stupid or humble enough to pretend otherwise. She saw the way boys looked at her, like she was something they could imagine alone in the dark. She heard the rumors, felt her name move through lockers and group chats like a shared fantasy.
She smiled politely. Let them think she was flattered.
Inside, she felt absolutely nothing.
She’d had boyfriends. Two? Three? More? She couldn’t remember without effort, which told her everything she needed to know. They wanted her body. Wanted to be seen with her. Wanted the social credit that came with dating the hot hospital director’s daughter.
None of them wanted her.
None of them asked what she was thinking. None of them noticed when her smile didn’t reach her eyes. None of them cared about the silence she carried around like an extra organ.
So she graduated.
Top of her nursing class—because failure wasn’t an option when your mother was watching from the director’s office like a hawk with a clipboard. She landed a job at Lincoln High School as the school nurse, a position that should have been competitive but somehow became hers after a few phone calls from Mommy Dearest.
Luna pretended she’d earned it on merit.
She almost believed it some days.
[The Boy Who Kept Coming Back]
She noticed him almost immediately.
Peter Carter.
His name started appearing on the infirmary sign-in sheet with disturbing regularity. Other students came once, maybe twice a semester—sprained ankles, migraines, period cramps, panic attacks fueled by caffeine and academic pressure.
Peter came every week.
Sometimes more.
At first, she treated him like everyone else. Same professional tone. Same gentle smile. Same clipboard routine.
"What happened?" she’d ask.
"Playing went wrong."
Every time.
Same words. Same flat delivery. Like he’d memorized the line and refused to revise it.
The injuries told the truth he wouldn’t.
Bruises shaped like knuckles. Not collisions—punches. Black eyes that bloomed too neatly. Split lips. Wrists twisted just enough to suggest someone had grabbed and torqued, not tripped and fallen.
Luna wasn’t an idiot. She’d spent years studying trauma, memorizing signs of abuse until they lived in her bones.
She knew exactly what she was seeing.
She tried to help.
"Peter," she said gently once, cleaning a cut, "if someone’s hurting you, you can tell me. I can report it. We can—"
"Playing went wrong."
She tried again another day.
"The principal needs to know if a student is being assaulted. I can walk you there. I can stay with you."
"Playing went wrong."
So, she went around him.
She talked to teachers. Then counselors. Then the principal. She laid out the patterns, the injuries, the timing. She didn’t accuse. She begged.
They shrugged and called him in.
Peter denied everything. Without his cooperation, there was nothing they could do. The accused—Jack Morrison, golden boy quarterback, future scholarship, son of a hospital owner who happened to be her mother’s boss too—had alibis, friends, money, and a smile that made problems disappear.
So, Luna watched.
She watched Peter walk in with new bruises and old silence. Watched him joke like it didn’t matter. Watched him refuse help with a stubbornness that felt less like pride and more like survival.
And something in her chest tightened every time.
Because she recognized that look.
The quiet endurance.
The learned isolation.
The understanding that no one was coming to save you.
For the first time in a long while, Luna Valentina didn’t feel alone.
And that scared her more than anything else.
Week after week she stitched the same fucking boy back together.
Same split lips. Same purple blooming across the same ribs. Same swollen knuckles he never raised in defense. Same goddamn ice pack pressed to the exact same spot on his cheekbone like she was marking territory on a map no one else bothered to read.
Luna started waiting for him.
Not in some twisted, "I get off on pain" way—Jesus Christ, she wasn’t that far gone. But the moment the infirmary door creaked open and it was him—head down, shoulders tight, trying to make himself smaller—she felt something unclench inside her chest. Because Peter Carter didn’t look at her like meat.
Every other boy who stumbled in here stared straight at her tits while she pressed the stethoscope to their back. They "accidentally" grazed her arm. They asked for her Snapchat while she was still holding gauze against their bleeding foreheads. They turned every interaction into a performance audition for getting her number, her nudes, her attention for five fucking minutes.
Peter looked at her face.
He asked what the difference was between hydrocolloid and foam dressings. Why she preferred silver-impregnated over plain gauze for certain wounds. Whether she thought chlorhexidine was overkill for minor abrasions or if the evidence actually supported it. He listened—actually fucking listened—when she answered. Eyes sharp. Questions follow-up sharp. Like he was taking mental notes for a test only he knew existed.
And he never once let his gaze drop below her collarbone.
He was supposed to be the school’s eternal crash-test dummy. The designated loser. The kid everyone agreed was safe to hit because he never hit back.
He was smarter than all of them combined.
Then came the day he didn’t walk in.
Tommy—soft, perpetually chewing, always-smelling-like-Doritos Tommy—basically fireman-carried him through the door. Connor trailed behind like a TikTok vulture, phone already horizontal, red recording dot glowing like a tiny demon eye.
"What the fuck happened?" Luna snapped, already ripping open sterile packs.
Tommy’s word-vomit: computer class, Peter’s dick, public declaration, bully secrets nuked from orbit, mass hysteria, Peter hitting the floor like a felled tree. Everyone thought he’d finally cracked.
Connor shoved the phone at her.
She watched.
Peter—quiet, bruised, head-always-down Peter—standing at the front of the room like he’d borrowed someone else’s spine, announcing to thirty teenage boys and a very stunned substitute teacher that his dick was apparently the nuclear option in the war against their collective fantasy life. And then—casual as breathing—he dropped the one piece of blackmail that made Jack Morrison’s face go the color of spoiled milk.
She shouldn’t have laughed.
She laughed until tears stung.
She watched it twice more while she cleaned gravel out of his hairline and checked his pupils.
And yeah—her traitor eyes slid down.
The outline under those cheap school slacks was... obscene.
Heat bloomed low in her belly like someone had struck a match inside her bloodstream.
Then he woke up.
Muttering.
"System... notification... seduction stat... level... unlock... fuck—cooldown?"