Luciano De Luca didn’t snoop.

He commanded. Took. Killed. But he didn’t need to sneak.

Until her.

Until the girl with ink-stained fingers and an expression too calm for someone under his roof.

Serena Vale wasn’t just writing stories. She was writing truths. Carefully veiled. Beautifully disguised. And one night, when she left her door slightly ajar, curiosity got the better of him.

He stepped into her room like a ghost.

And found the manuscript.

Not the notebook she let him read. Not the pages she left on her desk for him to find.

This one was hidden.

Tucked inside the lining of her suitcase, wrapped in an old scarf, marked with black ribbon.

Luciano opened it. And read.

The title stopped him cold:
“The Man Who Wasn’t Meant to Be Loved.”

The opening paragraph felt like a punch to the ribs:

He was a king built by blood, but cursed to feel nothing. Until her. And by the time he realized he felt something, she was already gone. Because some monsters weren’t meant to be saved—they were meant to be rewritten.

The main character’s name?

Lucan.

Not even subtle.

And the girl?

Celeste. A girl who disappeared in the final chapter—by her own hand. Leaving only a note behind:

You didn’t lose me. You just never had me to begin with.

He kept reading, even when it hurt. Even when the words felt like blades.

Because for the first time in years, Luciano saw himself—truly saw himself. Through her eyes.

Not feared. Not respected.

But broken. Starving. Hungry for something he couldn’t even name.

The door creaked.

He looked up.

Serena stood frozen in the doorway, barefoot, expression unreadable.

"You weren’t supposed to read that," she said softly.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “And yet here I am.”

A long silence.

Then she stepped forward and took the manuscript from his hands. Gently. No panic. No tears.

Just truth.

“It wasn’t about you,” she whispered.

Luciano raised a brow. “Liar.”

Her smile was sad. “Maybe. Or maybe it was about the version of you I hoped existed.”

He stared at her.

Then said, cold and sharp, “You really think I’m capable of loving someone?”

Serena’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“I think you already do. You just hate yourself for it.”

And with that, she turned, walking away with the story that was never meant to exist.

Leaving Luciano alone.

For the first time in years… shaken.

Not by violence.

But by hope.

And the terrifying thought that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to be rewritten.

He wanted to be real.