Luna was waging war—against clothing, specifically. Her room looked like a battlefield of half-filled suitcases and discarded shoes.
She folded a blouse neatly, then stared at it. "I'm not running away," she muttered to herself. "This is not running away."
She was preparing to move into the private building King Lucivar had commissioned for her. It was elegant, distant from Damien's quarters.
As soon as she'd spoken to Damien about it, she would move. It was what she wanted, wasn't it?
Independence.
Identity.
Who was she without the crown? Without the stifling expectations?
She needed to find out. And when she did, maybe—just maybe—she and Damien could finally begin again. One day, when the time was right, maybe she'd walk beside him, not as his responsibility… but as his queen.
She bent to pick up a runaway scarf, only to nearly fall into an open suitcase. She groaned. "Ugh. Maybe being a queen means someone else packs your bags."
