Reclaiming My Broken Luna

Bitterness pooled behind Eric’s eyes, dark and sour, before he blinked it away.

“I know,” he whispered.

His shoulders sagged, snow-damp hair clinging to his brow. “I just wanted to explain,” he added, his voice rough with something dangerously close to regret.

He told himself he wasn’t disappointed, but the tight set of his jaw betrayed him. Still, somewhere inside, a fragile hope flared—one last wish that Cecilia might feel even a little for him.

Cecilia, however, wanted no shadows of hope, no half-lit corridors where misunderstandings could fester.

“Please don’t explain in the future,” she said, calm but distant. “I don’t care beyond office gossip. Only if it jeopardizes the company will I ask for clarification.”

Her cool precision drove the point home. He felt the weight of disappointment, though he masked it behind a practiced expression.

“Ah… well, I guess I’ve only caused trouble for you,” he murmured.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll head back,” Cecilia said, already turning.

Eric nodded hard. “Okay.”

Without another word, she strode toward the house, her footsteps crisp, her shoulders unbowed.

Eric watched her silhouette until darkness swallowed it, his gaze refusing to retreat.

A sedan eased up, one of the windows sliding down. “Boss,” his driver called softly.

Eric grunted, slipped inside, and shut the door with a sigh that fogged the glass.

“Where to now?” the driver asked.

“Back to the office,” Eric replied, voice hollow.

The city lights streaked past. Eric slumped in the rear seat, lost, as though a vital piece of him had been left on that pavement.

Then his phone rang. It was his mother.

After a long hesitation, he answered. “Mom… what is it?”

“Is it true—the rumor about you and that actress? I heard she was married once and even has a child,” Ines said, her sigh rustling through the line. “Why must you fall for a woman like that?”

Before Eric could respond, his father’s stern voice cut in, cold and unyielding. “Why bother asking? That boy is utterly twisted.”

Eric had intended to explain, to soften the edges of this late-night call. But the instant he heard the accusation, the desire to defend himself drained away like water through cracked palms.

“Dad, Mom… didn’t you once say the only requirement for my future spouse was that she not be a man? You swore anything else would be fine, as long as I agreed to marry.”

Ines pressed her lips together, speechless.

Alan, standing off to one side, imagined in grim silence that his son had truly fallen for a divorced woman with a child. Anger simmered, but after a long, airless pause, parental instinct won.

“Forget it,” Alan muttered, each word tasting of surrender. “Bring her home for a meal when you can.”

The concession stunned Eric.

What the hell? Are they seriously ready to toss every boundary just to see me married—and themselves promoted to grandparents?

“We’ll discuss it another time,” Eric said sharply before ending the call.

Words still lingered on Alan and Ines’ tongues, but the opportunity had vanished. They faced each other across the quiet kitchen, reading the same helpless frustration in each other’s eyes.

Alan exhaled through his nose. “Take a good look at your son.”

Ines’ brows knit tightly. “Excuse me? Why make it sound like he isn’t also your son?”

The argument wilted there. Alan shut his mouth, and the room fell into a heavy, exhausted hush.

Back at the Smith residence, not long after Cecilia returned, Nathaniel crossed the threshold—boots dusted white, shoulders speckled with fresh snow, the winter bite clinging to his coat.

“Ceci.” His voice carried weariness that didn’t match the speed of his stride.

Cecilia, sipping warm milk tea in the lamplight, set her cup aside and arched a brow. “You’re back already? Didn’t you say you’d be working overtime tonight?”

Nathaniel scanned the dim hallway as if checking for witnesses, then lowered himself onto the couch beside her.

“Overtime’s canceled.”

His arm slid around her with practiced ease, drawing her into the shelter of his chest.

Cecilia noticed the odd hitch in his breath, the unspoken weight behind the embrace.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Nathaniel murmured, though his hold tightened.

She patted his shoulder, playful and gentle. “All right. Now, be good and let me go. I still want my milk tea.”

Whatever gnawed at him, Nathaniel refused to voice. Adam’s apple bobbing, he finally whispered, “For the record… it wasn’t me. Marco told Mason that Eric showed up earlier.”