Ten Thousand Reasons I Refuse To Be Your Luna

“No.” The word left my mouth before Adrian Knight even finished opening the velvet ring box in his hands. The ballroom went silent. Hundreds of eyes turned toward us, camera flashes bursting across the hall as reporters rushed to catch another headline. Crystal chandeliers threw light across the room, and all I wanted was for the night to be over. Adrian forced a smile, though the disappointment sat plain on his face. “Melissa,” he said. “I have not even asked yet.” “You did not have to,” I said. He laughed, quiet, trying to smooth over the awkwardness settling between us. “Can I at least know why?” I looked down at the diamond ring resting in his palm, then back up at him. “I have ten thousand reasons not to,” I said. Whispers rippled through the crowd. *She rejected another Alpha. Again? Poor Adrian. I thought this one had a chance.* Adrian closed the ring box slowly. “So I am just another reason?” he asked. “No,” I said, calm. “You are simply not the exception.” Neither of us said anything for a moment. Then he nodded, respectful, and stepped back. “I hope someone proves you wrong someday,” he said. “I doubt it,” I said. The applause that followed was not for romance. It was for another successful charity gala. The host hurried back to the stage, pretending nothing had happened, while everyone returned to smiling and drinking expensive champagne, discussing business like rejecting marriage proposals had somehow become part of my brand. Maybe it had. I smiled for every camera. Posed beside celebrities. Shook hands with investors. Thanked sponsors. Every movement practiced, every smile perfect. Only I knew how exhausted I actually was underneath it. By the time the gala ended, it was close to midnight. Outside the Grand Imperial Hotel, rain poured over the city without mercy. My assistant, Clara Bennett, hurried beside me holding an umbrella over my head. “You have the Aurora Luxury Group meeting tomorrow morning,” she said, checking her tablet. “Then lunch with Chairman Lucien Blackwood, the Paris campaign shoot, the charity interview.” “I know.” “You also need to review the acquisition proposal before noon.” “I know.” “And do not forget the investors from Italy—” “I said I know,” I said, colder than I meant it. Clara lowered the tablet fast. “I am sorry, Miss Star,” she said. I stopped walking. Rain drummed softly against the umbrella while people rushed past us. I sighed. “No,” I said. “I am the one who is sorry.” She smiled, gentle. “You have been working too hard,” she said. Working. Meetings. Contracts. Photoshoots. Interviews. Fashion weeks. Business dinners. My whole life had become one endless schedule, and sometimes I genuinely wondered whether I was still living it or just performing it for an audience that never stopped watching. At my sedan, Clara closed the umbrella. “Get some rest,” she said. “I will try,” I replied her, like I heard. She left with the security team while my driver took a separate car behind mine. Tonight I wanted to drive alone. The second I shut the door, the silence inside felt almost comforting. Almost. I opened my handbag and pulled out a small silver medicine case, several white tablets resting inside. I swallowed one without hesitating, chased with bottled water, and only then did the tightness in my chest start to ease. No cameras. No assistants. No pretending. Just me. I leaned back against the seat before starting the engine. City lights blurred through the rain as I pulled onto the empty road. Driving had always been the one time I could think without someone demanding something from me. The radio played low. For once, the world felt almost peaceful. Then my phone connected through the speakers. “Melissa,” Lucien Blackwood’s voice said, warm as always, carrying that strange comfort it always did. “Good evening, Chairman,” I said, a small smile finding my face despite myself. “I heard another proposal failed,” he said. “The reporters work faster than my own staff,” I replied. He laughed. “You broke another man’s heart.” “I only saved us both some time,” I replied to him. “You will meet someone worth accepting eventually,” he said, smiling. I could only say I agree with the Chairman for that moment, anything to end the ‘regular’ talk call about marriage mates, “I have heard that for years.” “And yet you keep proving everyone wrong,” he muttered. “That is because everyone keeps choosing the wrong men,” I said. He went quiet a moment. “Tomorrow’s meeting with Aurora matters,” he said. “If the contract goes through, Star Global officially enters the European luxury market.” “I have prepared everything already,” I told him. “I know you have,” he said, and his confidence always reminded me a little too much of my father. “Get home safe.” “I will,” I said. The call ended, and the car went quiet again. I snitched, and dropped the call. Outside, the rain only got heavier, visibility dropping fast. I slowed down. Something felt off. I checked the rearview mirror. A black SUV. Nothing unusual on its own. I kept driving. Another light. It was still behind me. Coincidence, probably. I changed lanes. It changed too. My fingers tightened on the wheel. *Do not overthink it. Not everything is a threat.* That was what my doctor always said. Still, I could not stop glancing at the mirror every few seconds. By the third intersection, the SUV was gone. I let out a slow breath. “See?” I whispered to myself. “You are imagining things again.” The words had barely left my mouth when a motorcycle shot out of a narrow side street, way too close. My eyes went wide. I slammed the brakes, tires screaming against the wet road, the car skidding sideways as the motorcycle swerved. Metal collided with a sound loud enough to swallow everything else for a second. Then silence, except for the rain. My hands would not stop shaking. “No,” I said, and pushed my door open, stumbling out into the storm. The motorcycle lay twisted on its side, headlight flickering weak against the dark. I looked around. No rider anywhere. Just muddy tracks disappearing toward the roadside, deep and strange, more like claw marks than tire treads. A cold chill crawled down my spine. “Hello?” I called out. No answer. I stepped closer, staring at the marks gouged into the wet earth, definitely not footprints, definitely not tires either. Something about them made my stomach twist. Then a calm male voice broke the silence right behind me. “Most people apologize before inspecting the crime scene,” he said. I spun around. Standing beside my wrecked car was a tall man in a soaked black mechanic’s jacket, faded jeans, heavy work boots, grease still smudged across his hands despite the rain pouring over both of us. His dark eyes moved over me without a trace of the reaction I was used to getting from men — no admiration, no recognition, no nerves. Like Melissa Star was just some stranger standing on the side of the road, which was somehow more unsettling than being recognized ever was. He glanced past me at the wrecked motorcycle, jaw tightening slightly. “I spent three months rebuilding that bike,” he said. He folded his arms, rain running off his shoulders, and looked back at me with an expression I could not quite read — not angry exactly, more like a man doing quick math in his head and not liking the answer. “So,” he said. “How exactly are you planning to pay for breaking my favorite motorcycle?” I opened my mouth to answer with whatever practiced, camera-ready line usually got men to back off, and found, for once, that nothing came out right away. He was still just looking at me, unbothered by the rain, unbothered by the wreck, unbothered by me — and something about that plain, steady attention landed somewhere I was not prepared for it to land. “I will pay for the damages,” I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. “Whatever it costs.” “It is not really about the money,” he said, glancing at the bike again, something almost soft crossing his face before it vanished. “Three months of my life just went sideways into a ditch.” “Then let me make it right,” I said. “Properly. Not just a check.” He raised an eyebrow at that, like it was not the answer he expected from a woman who had just turned down a diamond ring in front of half the city’s press corps an hour earlier. “Properly,” he repeated, testing the word. “I am not in the habit of doing things halfway,” I said. Something shifted at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, but close enough that my pulse did something complicated and unwelcome in response. “Careful,” he said. “That almost sounded like a promise.” “Maybe it was,” I said, and I had no idea, standing there soaked to the skin on the side of a dark road with claw marks in the mud and a stranger who did not care who I was, why that felt like the first honest thing I had said all night.