Noah didn't sleep that night. He sat alone in the dark boardroom of their penthouse, surrounded by folders scattered across the polished table—files his private investigator had sent him. Each one was meticulously organized: names, photos, and timelines detailing the people who filled Mirabelle Terania's orbit.
Her world unfolded before him. He read through each report methodically, his jaw tightening with every paragraph. She was surrounded by people: musicians, photographers, producers, and even ordinary fans who sent her gifts and handwritten letters every day.
Some of the messages were harmless enough—simple words of admiration and affection. But others crossed an invisible line, far too personal to ignore.
"I should send a proposal letter to her, think she'll respond?"
"I'd give anything just to hold her hand once."
"If she ever goes public with someone, I don't know what I'd do."
"Do you think she's single?"
Noah's hand curled into a fist. He had always known that she was beloved, but seeing it laid out this way—clinical and relentless—filled him with something dark and possessive. All these people thought they had a chance. That they could touch her. That they could have her.
But they didn't know.
She's not single, he thought. She's mine.
They didn't know her the way he did. They didn't know the history between them and the unspoken bond that tethered her life to his.
By midnight, frustration had hardened into something heavier—something he couldn't sit still with. Without thinking, he grabbed his keys and drove.
The Terania Estate loomed in the moonlight, its gates opening without question. The guards didn't stop him; they never did. His car slowed to a quiet halt in front of the east wing, where her bedroom was. Inside, the house was silent. Only the rhythmic ticking of a clock broke the stillness as he stepped into her room. Mirabelle lay asleep, her figure bathed in silver light from the open curtains. Her face was calm, her breathing steady—completely unaware of the storm that had driven him here.
For a long moment, Noah just stood there, unable to move, his chest tightening with every breath. But distance had become unbearable.
He sat down at the edge of her bed, the faint scent of her shampoo rising around him. Longing swelled in his chest until it almost hurt. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She didn't stir.
A quiet, shaky laugh escaped him—half relief, half ache. "You still sleep like the dead, Belle," he whispered, his voice breaking softly.
He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers, eyes closing as the weight of everything settled between them. "You're driving me insane," he murmured, the words fragile and raw.
After a long moment, he exhaled and lay beside her, careful and reverent. The mattress dipped under his weight, and instinctively, Mirabelle shifted closer, her head resting near his shoulder.
Noah froze, breath caught in his throat, then slowly—almost helplessly—wrapped an arm around her. The tension bled out of him all at once. The world outside faded until there was nothing but the quiet sound of her breathing and the warmth of her body against his.
All the chaos, the exhaustion, the noise—it all melted away in her presence. She was his anchor, his calm, the one thing that had always made sense.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in deeply. Nothing else had ever felt so right.
She is mine, he thought, the words echoing with steady conviction. She's always been mine.