I AM THE LUNA QUEEN
went to sleep a nobody. I woke up a Queen.
One night I was just a broke, exhausted college girl. The next, I opened my eyes in silk sheets, with strangers bowing and calling me Luna Queen. The face in the mirror is mine. The body is mine. But the life isn't. The bruises on my wrists tell a story I don't remember, and the King I'm bound to doesn't love me-he loathes me.
They whisper that his mistress rules the palace. They say the Queen was weak. Silent. Broken. But that was before me.
Now I must survive a palace that wants me dead, a King whose touch burns as much as it scars, and a kingdom waiting for me to fail. The old Luna Queen bowed to cruelty.
I am not her.
And if this King thinks I'll kneel, he's about to learn what a true Queen is made of.
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Chapter 1
Hazel’s Pov
I went to sleep in my dorm room.
That much I’m sure of.
My last memory is the soft hum of the radiator, the faint glow of my laptop screen casting blue across the walls, and the quiet chaos of half-finished notes scattered on my desk. I remember setting my alarm, curling under my blanket, and letting exhaustion finally drag me under.
But when I woke up…
It wasn’t my ceiling I stared at.
The air was heavy, thick with the scent of smoke and herbs, something cloying and strange. A chill pressed into my skin, though the surface beneath me was warm—too warm, like I was lying on silk sheets pulled from a fever dream. My eyes fluttered, my chest heaved, and the sound hit me first.
Crying.
Dozens of soft, choked sobs echoing around me, broken only by frantic whispers.
“My Queen—please, please open your eyes—”
“She’s breathing—oh, Moon Goddess, she’s breathing!”
“Call the doctor, now! Hurry!”
My eyes shot open, a gasp tearing through my throat.
The noise stopped instantly.
A cluster of women knelt around me, dressed in maids uniform. Faces blotched with tears, hands pressed together in prayer or desperation. Their eyes, wide and gleaming, fixed on me as if I were some miracle risen from the dead.
“Your Majesty,” one whispered, her voice breaking. “You’re awake.”
I sat up too fast, my head swimming. “What the hell—”
But the voice that came out of my mouth sounded strange.
It was higher. Softer. Wrong.
My hands trembled as I lifted them, staring at pale, delicate fingers tipped with perfectly manicured nails painted blood-red. My gaze slid lower—to the silken dress draped across my body, the neckline dipping scandalously low.
“What the fuck…” The whisper scraped past my lips.
The women surrounding me exchanged alarmed glances, but none corrected me. Instead, they shuffled closer, like moths drawn to a flame.
“Do you need water, my Queen?” one asked, her trembling hands already reaching for a crystal glass from the bedside table.
“My Queen.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Our Queen.”
The words stabbed at me again and again, their reverence so absolute it terrified me.
Queen?
I wasn’t a queen. I was a twenty two year-old college student who had fallen asleep during a Netflix binge and was supposed to have a quiz in English Lit tomorrow morning.
This was insane.
“Okay,” I said, holding up a shaky hand to stop them. “You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not—whatever you think I am. I’m not your queen.”
The room stilled.
For a heartbeat, nobody breathed. Then, as if choreographed, they all dropped their gazes to the floor, pressing their foreheads down toward the polished hardwood like I’d just blasphemed.
One of them whispered, “The mistress will hear…”
My stomach twisted. Mistress?
Before I could ask, the doors at the far end of the room opened—softly, like someone pushing through velvet.
The women flinched. Their bodies shrank toward me instinctively, shielding me as if they knew danger had just entered the room.
I craned my neck and froze.
A tall woman walked in, draped in black silk, her hair a cascade of raven curls that framed a face too sharp, too cruelly beautiful. Her lips curled into a smirk when her eyes landed on me.
“Well,” she purred, her voice like poisoned honey. “The corpse rises.”
The tension in the room thickened until it pressed against my ribs. The women beside me pressed lower to the ground, their fear palpable, their hands trembling as though even their breathing might offend her.
The stranger approached my bed with leisurely steps, her heels clicking against the hardwood. She looked down at me, her eyes glittering with malice, and for the first time I noticed the faint, red-rimmed bruises on my wrists. My wrists.
My gut twisted violently.
Had she—?
“Careful, pet,” she drawled, leaning in so close I caught the sharp bite of her perfume. “Death doesn’t excuse insolence. The Alpha king may tolerate your existence, but I do not.”
Alpha King?
The word struck like a lightning bolt, a piece of a puzzle slamming into place. Alpha king. Queen. Mistress. My skin prickled, and dread seeped into every corner of my mind.
I wasn’t in my room anymore.
I had woken up in someone else’s life.
And judging by the bruises, by the way this woman’s words dripped venom, by the sheer terror etched into the faces of the attendants still kneeling around me…
That life was a nightmare.
“I…” My throat closed around the words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her laughter sliced through me like glass. “Oh, how convenient. The Queen forgets. Tell me, will your memory return before tonight, when His Majesty summons you? Or will you shame him with your pathetic excuses again?”
Heat surged into my face. His Majesty? Summons?
The questions clawed at me, but I swallowed them down. Every instinct screamed not to give this woman more ammunition.
She tilted her head, her smile sharpening. “No matter. Whether you remember or not, your place remains the same—beneath me.”
The words landed like a brand against my skin. And though confusion and fear churned in my chest, something else rose with it—anger.
Because whoever this queen was, she had been broken. Bruised. Forced into silence. Surrounded by cruelty disguised as loyalty.
But me?
I wasn’t built to bow.
I met the woman’s gaze, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “We’ll see about that.”
Her eyes narrowed, surprise flickering there before she masked it with another cruel smile.
“We shall,” she whispered, before turning on her heel and storming out, her gown whispering across the floor.
The moment the doors shut, the attendants exhaled in shaky unison. One of them grabbed my hand, tears pooling in her eyes.
“My Queen, please,” she begged. “You mustn’t provoke the Lady. She has His Majesty’s heart. If she—if she tells him—”
Her words cracked.
But I didn’t hear the rest.
Because my heart was pounding too loud, drowning out everything.
His Majesty. The Alpha King. The man whose queen’s body I now inhabited.
And if what I’d just seen was any indication, he wasn’t a savior. He wasn’t a husband.
He was the monster who let his mistress tear his wife apart.
And now, I was trapped in her place.
Holy fuck this must be a nightmare.
I'll soon wake up, yes, I have to wake up.
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7.3
I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them.
7.5
I was the adopted daughter of the wealthy Ruiz family, but the moment their true heir appeared, I was thrown away like trash.
Not long after being kicked out, my adoptive father and uncle hired a hitman to stage a fatal car crash on Mulholland Drive.
Pinned under an overturned Porsche with a shattered leg, I watched the hitman point a suppressed pistol between my eyes.
"The Ruiz family sends their regards."
Before this, my reputation had already been completely destroyed by a director, a pop idol, and a reality TV star, leaving me blacklisted and universally hated.
My adoptive family didn't just want me ruined; they wanted me permanently silenced to tie up loose ends.
The hitman pulled the trigger, and the original Alicia died in despair, tasting only rain and blood.
Until her last breath, she didn't understand.
Why did the family she loved treat her like a disposable object? Why did those three men maliciously frame her and turn the world against her?
Opening my eyes again, the fear was gone, replaced by an ancient, cosmic indifference.
I, the Arbiter, had taken over this deceased vessel.
Moving faster than the human eye, I crushed the hitman's steel gun with my bare hand and turned his soul into dust.
Looking at the memories of those who wronged this girl, I signed a contract for the very reality show they were starring in.
Since I borrowed this body, taking out the trash is a required courtesy.
8.2
At my ten-week ultrasound, I was supposed to be celebrating the future of the Falcone family. I was Isabella Falcone, wife to the most powerful Don in the south.
But when the nurse called my name, the man who stood up beside his pregnant mistress was my husband.
In the sterile silence of that waiting room, he chose her. He later confessed he was being blackmailed by her family-a weakness that was a death sentence in our world. That night, he moved his mistress into our home, into my bedroom, and locked me away like a prisoner in the staff quarters. He wasn't imprisoning his wife; he was guarding an asset. He needed the legitimate heir I carried to save his crumbling empire.
His betrayal was absolute when his own mother and my adoptive parents arrived while he was away. They forced me to sign divorce papers, then told me they were taking me to a clinic. His mother pulled out a gun and pointed not at my head, but at my stomach.
"We're terminating this complication," she said coldly.
As they dragged me from the house, my world went dark. But through the haze, I saw a fleet of black cars blocking the gate. An army of men poured out, led by a face I had only ever seen in a photograph. Days earlier, locked in my room, I made a single phone call to the only man more powerful than my husband: my biological father, the head of the Chicago Outfit. And he had come to collect his daughter.
8.5
"You are getting married, huh?" A shrill voice asked me from behind. "You don't look happy.'
"It's a complicated situati..." He cut me off.
"I can make you happy."
My eyes darted between his lips and eyes, he noticed my indecision and locked his lips with mine.
While battling with betrayal, Iris melts into a mafia's touch without knowing who he is. Now she must bear all the consequences that follow.
7.4
I was only fifteen when my venomous family orchestrated my doom by forcing me into an arranged marriage with mafia heir Javier Velasquez.
On our wedding night, Javier paraded strippers into our suite to show his absolute contempt, turning me into the ultimate joke of the underworld overnight.
But being a joke was a luxury compared to what came next.
Three years later, Javier needed to be a widower to marry into a heavily armed family and secure their backing for a coup.
He didn't grant me the mercy of a bullet.
Instead, he dragged me to an abandoned underground safehouse, locked me in the damp, rotting dark, and told the world I had been assassinated.
For six months, I starved in that dungeon, surviving only on the desperate hope that my family was safe.
Then, on the day of his lavish new wedding, a cruel maid kicked a plate of spoiled food onto my floor and delivered the final, fatal blow.
"Annabel is dead. Pined away and died of a broken heart two weeks ago."
My gentle mother was dead, all because she actually believed his lie about my tragic murder.
Driven by pure agony and an all-consuming hatred, I shattered crates of smuggled chemical solvents and struck a match, letting the roaring inferno turn their bloody wedding into my funeral pyre.
I thought the fire was the end.
But when I opened my eyes, the suffocating smoke vanished, replaced by the biting chill of a Long Island winter.
I was standing in the snow, back on the exact day my descent into hell began.
This time, the terrified girl was dead, and I would use their own ruthless rules to tear their empire apart.
9.8
Three women, three brothers, a single, crumpled dollar bill.
Alina's world shatters the moment she's auctioned off-and claimed by the powerful Hawthorne brothers.
Thrown into Adrian Hawthorne's cold, dangerous world, she becomes his to control... his to protect... and, terrifyingly, his to desire. He's ruthless, possessive, and hiding secrets that could destroy them both. But the deeper she falls into his world, the harder it becomes to tell if she's his prisoner-or something far more dangerous.
Because the Hawthorne brothers don't just take.
They keep.
Viviane has spent her life surviving, so when Julian Hawthorne "buys" her freedom, she knows better than to trust it. Men like him don't save people-they collect them. But Julian isn't as simple as he pretends to be, and the deeper she's pulled into his world, the more dangerous it becomes to walk away.
Especially when she realizes she might be the only thing he's ever been willing to fight for.
Lena doesn't belong to anyone-and she intends to keep it that way. Brilliant, guarded, and hiding more than anyone suspects, she enters Lucien Hawthorne's world on her own terms. But Lucien doesn't play fair, and he doesn't let go.
When her past comes crashing back, Lena is forced to face the one thing she's been running from: trusting someone who could destroy her... or save her.
Three women. Three choices.Stay. Fight.
Or burn it all down.
Because being sold was only the beginning.