The scent of warm milk, sun-drenched fur, and catnip hung lazily in the air as Luna crouched beside a ginger tabby sprawled across a velvet cushion.
The cafe's soft jazz playlist tinkled in the background, blending with the gentle purring of at least a dozen contented felines.
Outside, the rain whispered against the windows in a steady rhythm, blurring the world beyond the cozy sanctuary.
Luna brushed a lock of silvery-blonde hair behind her ear, adjusting the tiny beret on the tabby's head for the third time.
"Come on, Milo," she murmured, "just one more photo for the cafe's socials and I'll get you a salmon treat."
Milo blinked at her lazily, then swatted the beret off.
She sighed, standing up and stretching her arms above her head. The shift was winding down. Her apron was dotted with fur and pawprints. Another quiet Wednesday at Purradise Cat Lounge.
Then the door jingled open.
Two men stepped in. Crisp black suits. Matching trench coats. Their shoes—dry, polished, and terribly out of place—clicked against the wooden floor. Every cat in the room stilled. Even Milo lifted his head.
"Luna Doe?" one of them said, his voice smooth but firm.
She blinked. "Uh… yeah?"
The taller man opened a leather folder. "We represent the Arklight Group. We're here to inform you that you are the biological daughter of Emmerich Arklight, CEO of Arklight Renewables. Effective immediately, you are the sole heiress to the Arklight estate and its associated assets."
Luna laughed, a single disbelieving bark. "What? Is this some kind of prank? Because if this is from a TV sitcom, tell them I refuse to be part of it."
"No prank," the shorter one said, stepping forward. "We'll explain on the way. We've been searching for you for twenty-seven years."
Luna was still unsure, but her manager told her to go since having such intimidating men was bad for the business.
So she went along.
I hope it's a prank. Let it be a quick prank! Why do they look so scary? Hopefully, the producer or director or whoever finds me unfit to participate! I need to work!
Those thoughts swarmed Luna's mind as she looked at the men in suits.
Luna didn't want to disobey the manager because she still needed that job to pay for next month's rent.
Still dazed, apron still tied around her waist, Luna let them lead her out. She didn't even grab her umbrella. Rain streaked her hair and plastered it to her cheeks as she was ushered into the back seat of a black town car, sleek and silent.
The city blurred by. Neon lights. Traffic. Her own stunned reflection in the window.
"Are you sure you have the right person?" she finally asked, her voice small.
The tall man turned to her, offering a thin smile. "There's no mistake. You're home now."
Home?
And then—there it was.
Beyond the iron gates, through an avenue of autumn-drenched trees, rose a manor so vast it didn't seem real. Gothic spires crowned its slate rooftops. Ivy curled along balconies of glinting glass. The drive curved like a ribbon of onyx toward massive oak doors.
It didn't look like a home. It looked like something from another world.
The car stopped.
Luna stepped out, her sneakers soaking in the gravel path. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared up at the sprawling estate—her estate, apparently.
"I used to sleep in a converted closet," she whispered, mostly to herself.
One of the men held the door open for her. "Welcome to your legacy, Miss Luna."
Still in her cat-fur-dusted apron, Luna stepped over the threshold—bewildered, silent, and entirely unready for the life that waited on the other side.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
The manor swallowed her in silence.
No creaking floors. No hum of old radiators. Just the muffled tap of leather soles against marble and the occasional distant chime of a grandfather clock. The air smelled like polished wood, roses, and something older—like history buried under varnish.
Luna barely had time to take in the sweeping staircase or the looming portraits before a procession of staff emerged, all dressed in grayscale uniforms with barely-there expressions. A woman with a severe bun and a tablet in hand stepped forward, nodding briskly.
"This way, Miss Luna."
"I'm sorry—what?" Luna asked, her voice echoing faintly in the high-ceilinged hall.
"Your bath is being drawn. We've prepared suitable attire. The family dinner begins in one hour."
Before she could protest—before she could even think—they were moving again. Hallways stretched endlessly, walls lined with gilded frames and crystal sconces. Everything gleamed, immaculate and intimidating.
She was led into a chamber the size of her entire apartment. The bathroom alone had gold fixtures, a clawfoot tub half the size of a jacuzzi, and folded towels stacked like architecture. Steam curled from the bathwater, infused with something floral and faintly citrusy.
Luna stood frozen at the threshold.
A maid approached gently, her eyes downcast. "Shall I assist you, Miss?"
"No—I mean, no, thank you," Luna stammered, finally stepping in. "I can… handle it."
She undressed slowly, staring at her reflection in the mirror—still in her apron, cat hairs clinging like ghosts. Her hair was damp from the rain, her expression pale, bewildered. She dipped a hand into the bath. Too warm, too luxurious. She half expected it to dissolve into a hallucination.
After the bath, a navy-blue dress with elegant tailoring awaited her. Not flashy—just expensive enough that you could tell. It fit too perfectly. Even the necklace they clasped around her throat had the quiet weight of old money.
She sat at the edge of the massive bed afterward, staring at her hands. Still calloused from lifting crates of cat food. Still chipped with flecks of nail polish.
"Dinner is ready, Miss."
Luna rose, feet numb in soft slippers. She was led downstairs again, the world beginning to feel like a dream cupped gently in someone else's palm.
The dining hall was a cathedral of candlelight and dark wood. A long table stretched ahead, flanked by upholstered chairs. Only three people sat at the far end. The woman with the tablet gestured for Luna to approach.
And then—she saw him.
At the head of the table sat a man with silver-threaded hair and a face like carved ice. He didn't need to speak. He didn't even need to move. He simply was—a presence that filled the room.
He looked up—and the air around Luna shifted.
His eyes were hers.
Not similar. Identical.
Her breath caught.
"Luna," he said, his voice deep, deliberate, rich with gravity. "You've come home."
She couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
The disbelief cracked just slightly, the first hairline fracture across the surface of her world.
No one laughed.
No one shouted, Gotcha!
Only silence.
And the man who wore her eyes like a mirror—yet sat a thousand miles away in a throne of wealth, waiting to reclaim a daughter he'd long lost.