TEN THOUSAND REASON I WON'T ACCEPT YOU; SAYS LUNA

“The night I met him, I thought I had ruined my life beyond repair.” Rain always made things feel slower, heavier, like the world was thinking too much before it moved. That night, it was pouring so hard I could barely see the road ahead even with the wipers on full speed. My hands stayed firm on the steering wheel, but my mind wasn’t in the car. It was still at the gala I had just left, still hearing people talk about me like I was a product instead of a person. I remember thinking I just wanted to get home. Quiet. No cameras. No voices. No expectations. I did not expect that everything would change in a matter of seconds. … I was driving through an empty stretch near the private coastal road. My driver had called in sick, and I chose to drive myself. I liked doing that sometimes. It made me feel like I still had control over my own life. The rain made the streetlights blur into long golden lines. Then I suddenly saw it. A motorcycle. It came out of nowhere, cutting through the rain like it didn’t care about survival or consequence. I reacted too late. The sound of impact wasn’t loud like in movies. It was dull. Heavy. Real. My foot slammed the brake so hard my body jerked forward. For a second, everything froze. Then panic came. I whispered to myself, “No… no no no…” I didn’t even think about who I hit. I only thought about what this would become. Lawsuits. Headlines. Reputation damage. Another story about Melissa Star destroying someone’s life. My hands were shaking when I unbuckled the seatbelt. … I stepped out into the storm and immediately regretted it. Rain soaked my dress in seconds, cold slipping through fabric and skin. The motorcycle lay on its side. And then I saw him. He was already sitting up. That confused me first. Most people would still be unconscious. He pulled his helmet off slowly, like nothing mattered. Like pain didn’t register the same way for him. His eyes met mine, not angry, not impressed, just… calm. That irritated me more than it should have. I expected shouting. Fear. Something I could respond to. Instead, he looked at me like I was just another person on the road. “You hit me,” he said simply. “I-I’m sorry,” I replied, still trying to process if he was injured. He glanced at his motorcycle, then back at me. “You should be, you going to pay for the bike or what.” That should have made me angry, but it didn’t. It made me uneasy. Because he wasn’t wrong neither can I say he is to blame. … I expected him to ask for money or call the police immediately. Instead, he stood up, slowly. His clothes were soaked, mud on his sleeves, but he didn’t look bothered. He checked his arms, his shoulder, then his bike. “You should go,” he said after a moment. I blinked. “What? Are you sure you are okay?” The boy replied. “This place isn’t safe to stand around arguing.” That made no sense to me. I had just hit him. I should be the one deciding what happens next, not him. “I can take you to a hospital,” I said quickly. “Or my driver can-” “I’m fine, thanks.” It was the way he said it. Final. Like the conversation was already over. Then he looked at me again, properly this time. And for a moment, I felt something I couldn’t explain, not attraction, not fear, but something in between. Like recognition, but I had never seen him before in my life. … The rain kept falling harder. He picked up his motorcycle with one hand, which didn’t look normal at all. It should have been too heavy, even for a strong man. But he did it like it was nothing. I took a step forward. “Wait. At least let me help you fix it or pay-” “I don’t need your money.” That sentence hit differently than I expected. Is he angry at me or is he holding lingering resentment toward me that might affect me later on? Most people knew who I was. They always wanted something from me. Attention, influence, access, andost times, my heart. He didn’t. That should have been a relief. Instead, it unsettled me, because I didn’t know what I was to him. He started walking the bike to the side of the road. Then he paused and said without turning back, “You should watch the road better next time.” Not rude. Not kind. Just honest. And somehow, that honesty stayed with me longer than it should have. … Before he left, I spoke again. “What’s your name? Can I know who you might be at least?” He hesitated for a second. Just one. “Morrette,” he said. Then he got on the motorcycle like nothing had happened. I stood there in the rain watching him start the engine. For some reason, I felt like I should say something else. Something important. Something that would make this moment less strange. But I didn’t know what. So I said nothing. And he left. The sound of the engine faded into the rain until there was only silence again. I told myself I would forget him by morning. I didn’t. … The next day, I expected chaos. Calls. Reports. Maybe even legal contact. Nothing came, no insurance claim, no police report, no news. It was like the accident never happened. Except I knew it did. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes. Calm. Too calm. That evening, my assistant brought me a folder for a private security meeting I was scheduled to attend. Corporate protection review, something routine. But when I walked into the room, my personal space, everything stopped for a second. Because he was there. Morrette, sitting like he belonged. Looking at me like he had already expected me to arrive. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like Melissa Star, billionaire or model. I felt like the girl who hit him in the rain. … After the meeting ended, he said something quietly while passing me. “So we meet again.” I frowned. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it?” He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at me for a long moment. And then he said something I didn’t understand at the time. “You don’t remember, do you?” My breath slowed. “Remember what?” He turned away before answering. And that was when I felt it again, that same strange pull from the night before. Like something inside me already knew him… even when my mind didn’t. … And the question I couldn’t shake that night was simple: If I had never met Morrette Mitchell before… why did it feel like I had already lost something the moment I saw him again?