Ten Thousand Reasons I Refuse To Be Your Luna

CHAPTER 10: Reason #10

The cameras would not stop flashing.

Every reporter in that ballroom had apparently forgotten there was an entire investment summit happening around them. They were all looking at me. At Morrette. At the ridiculous sight of me leaning against him because my own legs had decided, without asking permission, to stop working.

Embarrassment burned through me like a match had been dropped straight into my chest. “I can stand,” I whispered. Morrette did not let go. “No,” he said.

“I said I can,” I said, a little sharper this time. “You will fall,” he said, calm as ever. Matter-of-fact, like hundreds of people were not currently watching us instead of the actual summit.

That calmness annoyed me more than it should have. “I do not need your help,” I said. “You do,” he said. “I do not,” I said. “You have been shaking for the last minute,” he said, not even blinking.

I wanted to argue. Really, I did. Instead, my body decided to betray me completely. The moment I tried to take a step, my knees gave out.

Morrette caught me before I hit the floor, of course, because apparently that was becoming his full time job now. The whispers around us grew louder.

“Are they dating?”

“Is not that the biker from the news?”

“What is Melissa Star doing with him?”

Every word landed like a small knife. I hated being seen like this. Weak. Broken. Dependent. Three words I had spent my entire adult life avoiding, and here they were, trending in real time.

Clara hurried onto the stage with the hotel medical staff trailing behind her. “Miss Star!” she called out. “I am fine,” I said. She looked at me like I had just claimed the sky was green. “No, you are not,” she said.

The doctor checked my pulse and frowned. “She is experiencing severe anxiety,” he said. “I am alright,” I insisted. “You need rest,” he said. “I have investors waiting,” I said.

“You also need to breathe,” he said, and this time it did not sound like a suggestion. It sounded like an order dressed up in a polite voice.

Morrette helped me toward a private lounge away from the ballroom. On the way out, I noticed Chairman Lucien standing near the entrance. He simply nodded at Morrette. A silent little acknowledgment, nothing more.

Why did that feel like they understood each other without saying a single word?

Inside the private lounge, the noise from outside disappeared completely. Only the ticking of a wall clock remained, loud in that specific way clocks get when you are trying very hard not to think about anything.

I sat on the sofa while Clara searched through my handbag. “Your medicine,” she said, then paused, confused. “It is empty.”

“I forgot,” I said. “You never forget,” she said. “I did today,” I said. Morrette stood near the window, watching the hallway outside like he expected trouble to walk through it any second. He had not said a single word since bringing me here.

Finally, I looked at him. “You can leave,” I said. “No,” he said. “I am not going anywhere,” he added, just in case I had missed the point. “This is not your problem,” I said.

“It became my problem the moment people started shooting at you,” he said. I looked away. “I was not the target,” I said. “You do not know that,” he said.

Neither did he, honestly. And yet something in his voice made me wonder if he believed the opposite.

A knock interrupted the silence. Lucien walked in carrying two cups of coffee like this was a perfectly normal social visit and not the aftermath of a public breakdown.

“You look better,” he said. “I have looked better,” I said. He smiled gently and handed me a cup. “I will postpone the rest of today’s meetings,” he said.

“No,” I said immediately, shaking my head. “If I leave now, people will think Star Global is unstable.”

“They will survive one day without you,” he said. “My company will not,” I said. Lucien sighed. “You sound just like your father,” he said.

The mention of him changed the whole atmosphere of the room instantly, like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter.

“My father did not hide things from me,” I said. Lucien said nothing. “He trusted me,” I said. “He loved you,” Lucien said quietly. “Then why does everyone keep talking about him like he lived some other life?” I asked.

Lucien looked down into his coffee like the answer was floating somewhere in it. “Because,” he said, “he did.”

Before I could ask anything else, someone knocked again. A hotel employee stepped inside. “Chairman,” the employee said. “The guest you requested has arrived.” Lucien stood. “I will only be a few minutes,” he said.

As he walked out, a small black keycard slipped from his jacket pocket and fell to the floor. He did not notice. The door closed behind him.

I picked it up. Across the front, silver letters read LEVEL B3. No hotel logo anywhere on it. Only a black wolf inside a circle.

My heartbeat slowed down in that strange way it does right before something bad clicks into place. The same symbol. I had seen it tattooed on Morrette’s arm.

Ten minutes later, Morrette’s phone rang. His expression changed instantly, like a curtain dropping over a stage. “I am coming,” he said into the phone.

He ended the call and looked at me. “I have to go,” he said. “What happened?” I asked. “Work,” he said.

“You really expect me to believe that?” I asked. “No,” he said, already walking toward the door. Without thinking, I called after him. “Morrette.” He stopped. “Thank you,” I said. “For catching me.”

He looked genuinely surprised, like gratitude was a language he had not expected me to speak. “For what,” he said, then a faint smile crept onto his face. “I will add that to your list.”

“My list?” I asked. “The reasons,” he said. I could not help smiling despite everything. “Do not misunderstand,” I said. “I still have plenty.”

“I know,” he said, laughing quietly. “I have only destroyed ten.” Then he left, and I watched the door close behind him, wondering why the room suddenly felt so much emptier than it had a minute ago. Ridiculous, honestly, considering he had barely been in there an hour.

An hour later, Clara drove me back to Star Global. The news had already spread across every media platform like wildfire with excellent lighting.

MELISSA STAR COLLAPSES DURING INVESTMENT SUMMIT.

MYSTERY MAN SAVES BILLIONAIRE MODEL.

IS THIS MELISSA STAR’S SECRET BOYFRIEND?

I rubbed my forehead. “This is going to become a disaster,” I said. Clara glanced at me. “Do you want us to deny it?” she asked.

“No,” I said. She looked surprised. “Why not?” she asked. “Because denying it only creates more rumors,” I said. “What if the shareholders ask questions?” she asked. “I will answer them,” I said. “What if the press keeps following him?” she asked.

That question made me pause. Morrette hated attention, and this kind of publicity could turn dangerous fast. Somehow that worried me more than my own collapsing knees had.

That evening, I sat alone in my office. The city lights glowed beyond the glass walls like they had nowhere better to be either.

I opened my notebook and stared at a blank page for several minutes. Finally I wrote. *Reason number ten. You make me lose control in front of everyone.*

I closed the notebook. Something about it did not feel right. I opened it again and, without really thinking, crossed the sentence out.

Underneath, I wrote something else instead. *Correction. You saw me at my weakest and stayed anyway.*

I frowned at my own handwriting. “What am I even writing,” I muttered to the empty office, then shut the notebook quickly before anyone could walk in and catch me being sentimental about a man who rode a motorcycle into my life like a plot twist.

**Morrette’s Side**

At the same time, I rode through the city until I reached the abandoned warehouse near the river. Marcus and Sophia were already waiting for me.

“So?” Marcus asked. “Did Victor take the bait?” Sophia answered first. “He did,” she said, laying several photographs across the table. Victor Crane. The man in black. Several members of the Moon Order. And Chairman Lucien Blackwood.

My eyes narrowed. “Zoom in,” I said. Sophia enlarged one photograph pulled from the hotel security cameras. Lucien was not talking to Victor. He was not talking to the man in black either. He was quietly handing over the exact same black keycard Melissa had picked up from his pocket earlier that day.

Marcus looked confused. “I thought Lucien was helping Melissa,” he said. I stayed quiet, my gaze fixed on the photograph, turning the picture over in my mind like a puzzle piece that finally fit somewhere I did not want it to fit.

Finally I spoke. “No,” I said. “He wants us to believe that.” The warehouse went completely silent. Because if I was right, then the one person Melissa trusted more than anyone else in the world had just quietly moved himself onto the list of suspects in her father’s death.