Abandoned Luna Now Untouchable (Cecilia) novel Chapter 212

< Chapter 212 Faring the Madams fand

Some masked, some not. Many curious. More than a few uncomfortable.

“She gathered Denver’s most accomplished women under one roof tonight…

Only to serve us up as props in your little circus,

Is that what passes for entertainment now?”

My words landed like a stone dropped into still water.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty-it was loaded,

You could feel the shift in the room,

That final statement hit the room like a thunderclap,

Those who had been laughing moments ago, sipping champagne and enjoying the spectacle, suddenly realized they weren’t watching a performance-they were part of it.

Mrs. Dahlia’s face went pale. “This is manipulation!” she blurted. “It was just a game!”

“A game?” I repeated, my voice like flint. “Was it a game when that woman collapsed in fear? Or when you let your so-called Madame Tarot throw baseless accusations at your guests?

Tell me, Mrs. Dahlia–are we still your guests, or are we your puppets?”

“Madame Tarot only speaks truths…” she stammered, visibly unraveling.

“I don’t care if she calls herself Madame Tarot or the Oracle of the Apocalypse,” I snapped.

“She doesn’t get to humiliate people like it’s part of the show.”

I took a step forward. “The question stands–are we your guests, or just props in some twisted dinner theater?”

“Of course you’re my guests!” Mrs. Dahlia said, her voice rising. “It’s just… part of the experience. That’s all!”

“Mrs. Dahlia,” I said, voice drenched in ice-cold sarcasm, “your hospitality is truly… unforgettable.

With all due respect, I’ve had enough of your ‘just’–and your crow-draped lunatic. I’m leaving.”

I turned sharply on my heel, heart pounding.

My heels clicked across the marble like gunshots in a cathedral.

Behind me, Yvonne clutched Harper’s arm and followed.

3/5

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<Chapter 212 Facing the Madame Tarot

Our departure triggered a ripple effect.

+25 Points

Luna Dora shoved past one of Dahlia’s handlers and stalked toward the exit with her chin high.

From behind, the real VIP–a woman who hadn’t said a word all night–called out, voice shaking:

“Wait for me, dear!” And she hurried after us, shoes clacking unevenly on the ballroom floor.

For Moon’s sake, don’t follow us, I thought, panic rising, as the two women–well-meaning dead weights–trailed close behind.

Chairs scraped. Masks turned.

More guests began to rise–not in protest, but in quiet, collective rebellion.

Mrs. Dahlia’s voice wavered through the noise: “No, please–it’s just part of the experience! You’re missing the best part!”

But it was too late.

The spell had broken. The theater curtains had been yanked aside, and no one wanted to be part of the act anymore.

Through it all, Mrs. Locke didn’t blink.

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