Last Moon: Rebirth, Love, and the Werewolf Rockstar

Mizuki sat cross-legged on her bed, tapping the end of her pen against a blank notebook page. Her goals loomed large and tangled, like an overgrown forest, but she reminded herself of the old adage: you could eat an entire bear if you took it one bite at a time. Though, truth be told, she would rather wrestle a live one than deal with what awaited her outside these walls.

In 2018, she was fresh out of university—or so she let people think. In reality, she had graduated a year earlier, at 22, with a degree in design. Paris had been her academic home, nurturing her creative ambitions even as it left her with scars—literal and metaphorical. After all, it was in one of its shadowed alleys that her story had ended, tragically and prematurely.

Her design degree, to outsiders, was a shiny badge of her privileged upbringing—a rich girl playing at being an artist. What they didn't know was the other course she had quietly pursued: Luxury Brand Management, a degree that was less about passion and more about practicality. It was a necessary ticket for someone born into a family that owned a high-end fashion empire. Artistry and business acumen—a balance they had sold to her as destiny but often felt more like a gilded cage.

Her parents, strangely lenient, were content as long as she passed her classes. They claimed it was to spare her stress, but the truth, unveiled in hindsight, was more insidious: she was a girl. She wasn't the heir; she was the vessel. The real successor to the family business was the man she was fated to marry—Pablo Rossi. A stranger to her then but already bearing the weight of both families' ambitions.

In a stunning revelation, at least to her, Mizuki finally understood why her mother had always treated her like royalty. She wasn't cherished for her grace or beauty—no, it was because she was the only child her mother could ever have. The birth had been a harrowing ordeal; complications arose, and her mother bled profusely, the trauma resulting in the removal of her uterus. Mizuki's mother, the iron-willed matriarch, had given everything to bring her into the world. But her father—Mizuki sighed—was a man who, if one were being generous, could be called traditional. But really, he was more of a chauvinist, the kind who believed women were best suited for softer roles. It wasn't that he resented her for being a girl—no, it was the quiet disdain he had for the idea that she might ever be capable of leading the family empire.

And yet, her father's hypocrisy ran deeper than his dismissive gaze. He kept a mistress, a secret wrapped in layers of discretion. Mizuki had wondered, once, why he hadn't fathered a child with that other woman if he so wanted a son. The answer was as pragmatic as it was ruthless: her mother, though indifferent to his infidelities, would have destroyed him if he'd crossed that line. Their marriage, a business deal masquerading as love, was held together by her mother's iron grip. A child from another woman would have meant the end—of his career, his reputation, his very identity. Her maternal grandparents would have seen to that.

Thus, Mizuki had grown up with the illusion of freedom. She could study, explore, and indulge her passions. She could wear the crown without bearing its weight. Pablo, meanwhile, had been groomed for the role of heir since birth. His upbringing had been meticulous and merciless, shaping him into the perfect candidate to inherit not just one legacy but two.

"Maybe that's why he didn't like me," Mizuki muttered, her tone laced with both bitterness and self-awareness. But no, Pablo didn't dislike her. He just didn't love her—not the way she had hoped, not the way stories promised. To him, she was an obligation, a piece of the puzzle handed down by their parents. Yet he was loyal to her, always supporting her dreams and never turning to other women. His affection, however, felt more like that of a brother than a husband. And she, trapped in her own gilded role, often wondered what it would feel like to live a life that was truly hers.

But that was the old Mizuki. The one who didn't ask questions, didn't push back. She wasn't that girl anymore. She was back, wasn't she? If she didn't change, her return would mean nothing.

"Mimi?" A voice interrupted her reverie, soft and sweet as honey—and just as cloying. "Mimi, are you awake?"

The pet name grated on her nerves. Once, she'd loved it, found it endearing. Now it was a reminder of everything she'd outgrown. Mizuki's lips curled into a sardonic smirk.

"I'm coming in, okay?" The singsong tone pushed through the crack of the door like an unwelcome draft.

Nancy Anderson stepped in, all sugar and light. Petite, with strawberry-blond hair that fell in soft waves to her shoulders, streaked naturally with darker red, and green eyes that sparkled with practiced sincerity, she was the picture of charm. Slim, elegant, and ever soft-spoken, Nancy could disarm even the sharpest critic with her air of innocence. Nancy looked every inch the young lady of an aristocratic family—more so, in fact, than Mizuki herself. If someone saw them side by side, they might have mistaken Nancy for the heiress and Mizuki for the humble companion. And perhaps that was exactly how Nancy wanted it. But Mizuki was no longer fooled.

In her past life, she had adored Nancy. The daughter of their housekeeper, Nancy had been plucked from humble beginnings to become Mizuki's playmate. When Mizuki's family left London, her six-year-old self had thrown a tantrum so epic it ensured Nancy and her mother moved with them.

How she regretted that tantrum now. If she could, Mizuki would slap her six-year-old self for bringing this leech into her life. Nancy, the so-called friend who had whispered behind her back, manipulated her kindness, and eliminated anyone who got too close. A parasite in designer shoes.

"Mimi, are you feeling okay? Auntie said you caught a little bug," Nancy cooed, stepping closer.

A bug? Mizuki's eyes gleamed with mischief. She raised a hand, halting Nancy in her tracks.

"There is a bug," Mizuki said with a slow, deliberate smile. "Which is why you should keep your distance. I need to get rid of it."

Nancy tilted her head, confusion clouding her doe-like eyes. Mizuki's smile sharpened. She hadn't said she needed to recover because the bug wasn't an illness. The bug was Nancy herself.

Yes, Mizuki thought, her resolve crystallizing. She would get rid of Nancy. After all, she hated parasites—and Nancy was the biggest one of all.