The Luna Queen's Rebirth (Ellie and Dominic) novel Chapter 114

Ellie POV

A ball.

I search my memory. Which one?

So many were such wrecks, wastes of time and full of problems.

Dominic’s mother doesn’t waste time, tapping the mic again fo rour attention.

“The Ball,” she says, “Will kick start our process of finding our Dominic’s future Luna!”

I feel this weird tug in my heart hearing his name.

This was…the last thing I needed, but the auditorium exploded in whispers.

“He’s still on the market?”

“I though he was with Vivian?”

“Isn’t he fated to Ellie?”

“Don’t mean he can’t choose another!”

“I have a chance!”

My brow fell. Ah. I remember this one now.

“This evening,” his mother continued smoothly, “will mark the beginning of a formal process.”

A ripple of excitement moves through the auditorium. I feel it like static against my skin.

“Dominic will be the centerpiece of the night,” his father adds, voice calm and authoritative. “And the party will be used for him to meet all of you and our hand pick selections.”

“By the end of the evening,” His mother says says, “we will begin narrowing the field of candidates.”

A hush settles over the room.

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“Selections will be made based on several factors,” she continues calmly. “Presentation, dress, social standing, and how each of you conducts yourselves throughout the night.”

She pauses, letting the weight of that sink in.

“Grace under pressure matters,” Dominic’s father adds. “Poise. Adaptability. How well you represent not just yourselves, but the future you would stand beside.”

A few girls nod eagerly.

“And,” his mother says, almost casually, “Dominic’s own preference will, of course, be considered.”

The phrasing makes it sound…optional. Unsurprising.

“Those chosen,” his father continues, “will be granted more time with him in the coming weeks. More

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oppurtunity to prove compatibility.”

His mother’s gaze sweeps the crowd, sharp and assessing.

“However,” she says smoothly, “let us be clear, what matters most is earning our confidence.”

Silence stretches.

“We wish you all the best of luck,” she finishes.

The microphone clicks softly as she steps back.

And the room exhales like the starting gun has just gone off.

The message is clear.

Win their favor first.

Applause thunders through the auditorium, cheers bouncing off the walls, excitement spilling over like it’s contagious. I shrink back in my seat, shoulders drawing in on instinct.

The memory finally hits hard.

That night.

The lights. The gowns. The quiet disappointment when I wasn’t enough. Not picked and by the end of the night, covered in juice.

I remember how small I felt.

How replaceable.

This time, I’m not blindsided though. Nor did I want the guy, or trying to impress.

And with where Dom and I were now, the best I could do is lay low. Really low.

Maybe…he’d meet someon he deserved. Someone far better then Vivian or I.

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The room hums with nerves.

My nerves.

Not loud ones, no frantic pacing or squealing, but a low, constant vibration that settles under my skin and refuses to leave.

Dresses hang from the closet door like they’re waiting to be worn. Jewelry glints under the lamp. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loudly.

I sit on the edge of the bed while Sarah fastens a clasp at the back of my dress.

“I still think you could fake the flu,” she says casually. “Or a tragic ankle relapse.”

“What memory?”

“Something that’s mine,” I say quietly. “Even if it’s just the act of showing up on my own terms.”

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Sarali smiles then Confused, but supportive. “Well,” She says, given hell.

When I finally stand and face the mitror fully, it almost knocks the breath out of me.

The girl staring back looks… composed. Radiant, even if I don’t feel it.

The dress falls over me in layers of deep twilight blue, the fabric shifting with the light, dark as midnight in shadow, silvered where the lamp catches it: It skims instead of clings, moving softly when I breathe, when I shift my weight. The neckline curves simply at my collarbones, edged with delicate embroidery like faint constellations stitched into the cloth.

Sheer sleeves trail lightly down my arms, barely there, fastening at my wrists with tiny, gleaming clasps. At the waist, the dress narrows just enough before releasing into a long, fluid skirt that brushes the floor, the hem scalloped and faintly shimmering, like water under moonlight

There’s no heaviness to it. No restriction. I can stand easily. I can breathe.

My hair is pinned back loosely, a few strands left free, my makeup soft and warm-nothing overdone, nothing trying too hard.

There’s nothing fragile about her posture, nothing pleading in her eyes. She isn’t waiting to be chosen. Not lke last in a flashy, bright dress.

She looks untouchable, muted, in a way I’ve never let myself be before.

I barely recognize her, and for once, that feels like the point.

Sarah steps in beside me, just as stunning, just as steady,

Her dress is a warm contrast to mine, rich emerald silk that catches the light with every movement, the color deep and alive like a forest at dusk. The fabric is cut clean and confident, fitted through the bodice with subtle structure before flowing into a skirt that sways easily when she walks. One shoulder is left bare, the neckline angled in a way that feels bold without being loud.

Fine gold threading traces the edge of the bodice, the sleeves minimal, soft drapes of fabric at her arms. She looks grounded. Assured. Younger yet olde all at the same time to me.

Standing beside her, I realize we don’t look like competitors at all.

We look like a choice.

“Ready?” she asks.

I take a breath.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

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