Chapter 4
1468 Words
Draven's heart felt as though a heavy, crushing blow had struck it.
He had always known Cressida hated him. But he had never realized she hated him this deeply, down to her very bones.
The pain that rose inside him was so sharp and overwhelming he could not speak another word.
Just then Zoren stepped out from beneath the eaves. "Cressida, it is raining. Drive me home, won't you?"
Cressida turned away without a second glance and walked off at Zoren's side.
She held the umbrella tilted entirely over him, careful and gentle, shielding him so carefully that not a single drop of rain touched his shoulders.
Draven stood where the roof offered shelter, watching them go in silence. It reminded him of another rainy day long ago.
He had gone to collect Cressida from her family home, bringing only one umbrella, hoping they might walk together through the rain like the lovers in those romantic dramas she loved so well.
In the end, they had walked apart, an entire galaxy stretched between them.
By the time they arrived, both were soaked through, shivering, miserable, and distant.
He had known it even then, hadn't he? Whether someone loves you or not shows in every small, quiet moment long before words are ever spoken.
Draven's chest ached all over again. He clenched his hands tight at his sides until his knuckles turned white.
The rain poured on and on before Director Huxley finally arrived in a hurry.
As they spoke, the man shook his head in quiet wonder.
"The Fairmoor Group is truly sparing no expense this time. Ten billion invested in a single short drama! It is no wonder everyone whispers that Zoren is the one Cressida has always loved," he paused, then looked at Draven.
"There is one more thing. They wish to change the story's ending. Are you agreeable to that, Moonscribe?"
Draven nodded slowly. "Yes. I agree."
He had died once. And in dying he had finally understood that the happy ending he had written had never belonged to the story at all.
It had only ever been his own foolish, stubborn longing. If the story was wrong, then it was only right to set it straight.
Once every detail of the contract was settled, Draven drove home. Cressida was not there. She had not come back.
Later that evening, he sat before his computer, deep in thought, when a notification popped up in the corner of his screen.
The Crownstone Studios had officially announced they had purchased the adaptation rights to "Moonlight Across the Void." And they had announced the leading man, Zoren Corwyn.
Beneath the announcement, trending headlines blazed across the internet:
"Cressida Fairmoor Pours Billions Upon Zoren Corwyn For Her One True Love"
Within minutes, the whole city was buzzing with excitement.
A: [Look at them! The couple everyone has always adored! They are finally finding their way back to one another!]
B: [Make it official already! And why not let Cressida play the leading Mrs. too? We all want to see the powerful woman bow to love at last!]
Every word he had written with such care had become nothing more than a backdrop for Cressida and Zoren's great romance.
Draven pulled a thin, sad smile to his lips. He closed the page, printed out the original final scene he had written, and placed it carefully into the wooden box alongside the broken prayer beads.
*****
The next morning, Draven was woken by an alarm he had set long ago.
It was his mother's birthday banquet today. He had bought the gift long before his death. He stood there holding it for a long moment before he decided to go.
His parents might not wish to see him. But this would be the very last time. Besides, there were still a few things he had left behind in his old bedroom.
He dressed and drove to his childhood home. A sleek Rolls‑Royce Phantom waited at the gate.
Cressida rolled down the window. Her voice was cool and flat. "It would look terribly wrong if you did not attend your own mother's birthday. Get in."
After their marriage, she had avoided every single visit back to his family home. She had never once returned with him.
Yet the moment Zoren came back from abroad, she no longer stayed away at all.
Draven knew perfectly well who she had really come here to see.
An hour later they arrived at the Corwyn family estate. The house was filled with wealthy guests and soft music, bright, warm, and bustling.
Draven stood in the doorway and heard laughter drifting from the drawing room.
He stepped forward and spoke gently, "Dad, Mom. I am home."
He held out the gift to his mother. "Mom, Happy Birthday."
The warmth and laughter died instantly.
His father's face turned dark and cold. "You dare to show your face here? Why did you not keep acting out this tragic farce and let us bury you?"
His mother looked at him with nothing but disappointment in her eyes. "Draven, how could you be so terribly selfish and thoughtless?"
Draven opened his mouth to speak. He tried again and again to explain.
But how could he possibly tell them something that sounded so utterly impossible? That he had truly died. That he had been murdered.
Just then Zoren stepped forward. He took both of his parents' hands into his own, smiling softly and kindly, smoothing everything over.
"Draven has learned his lesson. Today is Mom's birthday. Let us not speak of things that bring unhappiness." He turned then and looked toward Cressida, holding out his hand. "Cressida, come help me cut the birthday cake?"
"Of course," Cressida said. Her voice was soft and warm as she walked straight over to his side.
Smiles returned instantly to his parents' faces. His own mother and father. His own wife.
All standing together, laughing and talking and cutting the cake as one happy family.
Draven might as well have been made of glass. He was invisible in the home he had grown up in. It made no difference whether he was alive or dead.
He did not step forward and interrupt this perfect, happy scene. He handed his gift quietly to a servant and walked away to the bedroom that had once been his.
Everything remained exactly as it had been when he was a boy.
On the nightstand stood a framed photograph taken when he was ten years old. Zoren had not yet come to the family at that time.
In the picture, Draven was beaming, bright and happy, and his parents had looked at him with nothing but pride and love.
He stood there gazing at it for a long time, tasting the bittersweetness of it all.
He took a deep breath, found a large cardboard box, and began to gather every object that tied him to this life.
As he packed, he realized with a sharp pang that more than half of everything there was something he had given to Cressida.
Eighty‑eight gifts she had returned to him, every single one. Ninety‑nine letters he had written by hand and poured his heart into, and not a single one had ever been opened.
There was the ring he had made himself, working until his fingers bled. The limited edition sports shoes he had traveled halfway across the world to find for her.
The antique artifact he had tracked down across three continents. Every single thing spoke of how completely and desperately he had loved her.
His heart felt scalded, raw and aching. He placed them all gently into the box. He had once thought these things were keys that might unlock her heart.
Now he understood they had only ever been chains binding him to her.
When he had finished, he walked back downstairs. Laughter and warm voices drifted from the drawing room. He had intended to slip away quietly.
Then a woman's voice rang out, clear and sharp and familiar, speaking from where she stood with her back toward him.
"Mr. Corwyn. Mrs. Corwyn. It is an honor to meet you both. My name is Alessia Cross."
The sound hit him like a bolt of lightning, freezing him where he stood. He knew that voice.
It belonged to the woman who had kidn*pped him, the woman who had watched him die.
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