Abandoned Luna Now Untouchable (Cecilia) novel Chapter 210

Chapter 210 Could it be… Cici?

Cecilia’s pov

“That tarot lady looks like she’s about to pull a rabbit out of someone’s chest cavity,” Yvonne whispered, eyeing the black-masked figure now standing center stage like the final act at a haunted circus.

We’d positioned ourselves in the third row of the forming crowd–close enough to catch the grim details, far enough to avoid becoming part of the show.

The woman in black was tall and rail-thin, draped in midnight satin. Her mask covered her entire face, ornate and vaguely insectoid–like something salvaged from a Tim Burton prop closet, then dipped in dread.

What little skin peeked out from her sleeves was taut but showing age–not elderly, but the kind of “ageless” that comes from pricey dermatologists and weekly microcurrent facials.

“That’s not a tarot reader,” I muttered. “That’s a walking Halloween special.”

Harper leaned in, her eyes scanning the room like a surveillance algorithm, sharp and silent.

“Think about it. What if this isn’t just a reading? What if it’s a diversion? First, they jam the signals, then put on a spectacle, and while everyone’s watching the show…”

“What? Someone vanishes?” I whispered, a chill coiling around my spine like icy fingers in silk gloves.

Yvonne’s hand flew to her chest. “You don’t think–”

“It’s not impossible,” Harper continued, voice now a whisper. “The gold mask could’ve been laced with something. Nothing dramatic–just enough to make someone woozy. They wait for it to kick in. Then, in the cover of this sideshow, one woman stumbles out ‘unwell,’ and another slips away… wearing the same dress, same mask…’

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“And by the time anyone realizes someone’s gone,” I finished, my voice low, “everyone swears they saw her leave on her own.”

It sounded absurd. Like a bad twist in a true crime podcast.

But it also made a certain kind of stomach-sinking sense.

Mrs. Dahlia emerged at the front like a Broadway emcee preparing her big reveal.

Her voice rang out across the ballroom, crisp and amused.

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Chapter 210 Could it be

Cici?

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“Madame Tarot,” she cooed, “my guests have all donned masks tonight, hiding their true. faces. You claim to see beyond appearances-to glimpse past lives, secret fears, and hidden

truths.”

She turned to the crowd with a smirk, equal parts socialite and stage director.

“Well then. Prove it. Pick anyone you like.”

A ripple of delight passed through the guests–the kind of giddy tension that usually comes before a magic trick or a scandal breaking on the local grapevine.

Harper, Yvonne, and I exchanged glances.

“So much for your vanishing-act theory,” Yvonne muttered, trying to sound skeptical but failing to hide the unease in her voice.

“The night’s still young,” Harper replied, completely unfazed.”Besides, cold reading is just psychological manipulation wrapped in a velvet robe.”

At the front, Madame Tarot began to move–not walking, but gliding, like the floor itself was pulling her forward.

She stopped in front of Luna Dora.

Luna Dora tensed immediately. Her spine straightened, her smile faltered.

“Not me,” she said too quickly, shaking her head. “I don’t want my fortune told.”

Madame Tarot didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

She just stood there, tall and silent, her mask a perfect void.

The crowd began to murmur, then cheer her on–like a high school dare spiraling into a public spectacle.

“Don’t be a spoilsport!” someone shouted.

“It’s just for fun!” another laughed, slurring slightly.

“It’s tradition,” Mrs. Dahlia said smoothly, like she was explaining the rules of a dark party

game.

“Whoever Madame Tarot chooses doesn’t get to say no.”

I frowned. This wasn’t the script I’d been expecting.

Wasn’t The Real VIP the one under pressure? Why the sudden detour to Luna Dora?

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< Chapter 210 Could it be Cici?

+25 Points

Across the room, The Real VIP stood frozen, one hand clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white.

She looked seconds away from collapse-except now she was watching with stunned relief, like the executioner had misread the name on the list.

Madame Tarot loomed over Luna Dora,

Still no cards. No crystal ball. No props.

Just that mask–and a silence so thick it felt like pressure in your ears before a storm.

Then she bent down, slow and deliberate, her mouth just inches from Luna Dora’s ear.

Whatever she whispered, we didn’t hear it.

But we saw the fallout.

Luna Dora’s face drained of all color. Not pale–snowblind.

Her eyes went wide with pure, unfiltered terror–the kind that lives in the basement of the brain, where rationality never reaches.

And then, like her strings had been cut, she dropped.

No drama. No scream. Just a silent collapse–a marionette with no master.

The ballroom froze. For three heartbeats, no one moved.

Then chaos hit like a broken floodgate.

Chairs scraped back. People gasped, surged forward, or backed away.

I stared at Madame Tarot, unable to look away.

What the hell had she said to make Luna Dora–the Luna of the Blood Moon Pack-drop like

that?

“What the hell did she say to her?” Yvonne hissed in my ear, her voice strained beneath the rising noise.

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