I never planned to see him again that soon.
But fate doesn't always ask for permission.
It happened three days after our first meeting. I had a charity event to attend downtown, one of those fancy gatherings filled with champagne glasses and fake smiles. I didn't even want to go, but Aunt Meredithinsisted. "People must see you happy, Ravena," she had said. "It makes them believe your life is perfect."
So I wore a silver gown that shimmered like moonlight and forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. Cameras flashed the moment I stepped out of the car. Questions flew in the air, about my company, my plans, and of course, my sister's upcoming wedding.
I answered politely, moved through the crowd, and wished the night would end quickly.
And then, I saw him.
Draven.
He stood across the room, dressed in a simple black suit that somehow made him look like he belonged in every expensive room. His hair was slicked back this time, and under the golden lights, his eyes looked almost bronze, warm, deep, and searching.
For a moment, everything around me went quiet. The music, the voices, even the clinking of glasses. It all faded until the only thing that existed was that man looking at me.
He smiled, slow and sure, like he'd been waiting for me to notice. And without thinking, I smiled back.
He approached with that calm grace of his, like a man who never had to rush for anything.
"Miss Ravena," he said softly. "I was beginning to think I'd never see you again."
I raised a brow. "You say that like you were looking for me."
He chuckled, low and easy. "Maybe I was."
That shouldn't have made my heart skip. But it did.
We talked for a while, about art, about fashion, about how he started his small brand. His words were simple but carried a kind of passion that pulled me in. He didn't talk like other men. He didn't ask about my company or my money. He asked about me, what I loved, what I feared, what made me laugh.
And I found myself telling him things I hadn't told anyone in years.
By the end of the night, I realized something strange. I had smiled, not the fake smile I gave to the world, but the real one that came from deep inside.
When the event was over, he offered to walk me to my car. The air outside was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain. My driver was waiting, but I wasn't ready to leave.
"I had a nice evening," I said, hugging my shawl closer.
"So did I," he replied. "You don't smile often, do you?"
I blinked. "What makes you say that?"
"Because when you do," he said quietly, "it feels like the whole world stops for a second."
I laughed softly, trying to brush off the warmth rising to my cheeks. "You really know how to talk, don't you?"
"Only when it's the truth."
There was something about the way he looked at me that night, like he could see past everything, even the walls I'd built to protect myself.
I wanted to ask more about him. Where he came from. Why did his eyes look golden under the moonlight? But before I could speak, he gently took my hand, bowed slightly, and said, "Goodnight, Ravena."
The way he said my name, low, slow, almost reverent, lingered long after he walked away.
The following days became strange in the most beautiful way.
He started showing up, not in a creepy way, but in the way that made my heart race. One morning, he appeared at my office lobby with a cup of coffee and a simple note that said, "For the woman who works too hard."
Another day, he showed up at my company's fashion department, saying he was invited to collaborate with one of our designers. I didn't know whether to believe him, but the excitement in the staff's eyes made it impossible to question it.
And just like that, Draven became a small part of my everyday life.
We'd talk during lunch breaks, sometimes late at night over the phone. He'd tell me stories about the small village he grew up in, how the moon looked brighter there, how he loved the sound of wolves howling from far away hills.
It sounded poetic then. I didn't realize it was also a clue.
Weeks passed, and something inside me started to heal. I didn't flinch when people mentioned marriage anymore. I didn't feel that dull ache of loneliness every night. Draven made me forget that love had ever hurt me.
One weekend, he asked me out of the blue, "Do you ever go anywhere without your bodyguards?"
"Not really," I said, laughing. "They follow me everywhere."
"Then tonight," he said, eyes glinting with mischief, "I want to steal you away. Just you and me. No guards. No work. No past."
I hesitated for a second, the cautious part of me screaming don't. But there was something in his voice, something safe yet wild. And for once, I wanted to be free. So I agreed.
He took me far outside the city, to a quiet field surrounded by tall grass and glowing fireflies. It was beautiful, like a scene from another world.
We sat on the hood of his car, eating cheap street food he'd picked up along the way. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed that much.
Then he turned to me and said softly, "Do you ever wish you could start over?"
"Every single day," I admitted. "But life doesn't give people like me that kind of luxury."
He looked at me with those unreadable golden eyes. "Maybe it does. Maybe you just haven't found the right reason yet."
The air grew quiet.
I looked away, suddenly aware of how close we were. His hand brushed mine, gentle but firm, and it felt like my skin caught fire.
I wanted to move, to say something witty, but my voice betrayed me.
He leaned closer, and for a moment, our foreheads touched. My heart beat so fast I could barely breathe.
"Ravena," he whispered, "you don't have to be strong all the time."
Those words broke something inside me, a wall I'd spent years building.
Before I could stop myself, I whispered back, "Then hold me before I fall apart."
And he did.
We stayed that way for a long time, his arms around me, his breath warm against my neck. I didn't know how long we sat there, but when I finally pulled away, his eyes looked darker than before, almost glowing in the dim light.
"Your eyes…" I murmured, blinking. "They look… different."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe it's just the moonlight."
I wanted to believe him.
But deep down, something in me whispered that it wasn't the moonlight at all.
When I got home that night, I found a small gift box on my bed.
No name, no card, just a black box tied with a red ribbon.
Inside was a single silver pendant in the shape of a crescent moon.
And a note that read:
"To my moon bride, the night is just beginning."
My heart fluttered, it had to be from Draven.
But why did it feel like something much darker hid behind those words?