Danton had everything. Fame. Fortune. A Manhattan penthouse. Readers across the globe devoured his novels—bittersweet tales of forbidden love, always laced with longing. They didn’t know the truth: each story was a whisper of you.

You, the girl with the ancient blood and a hidden crown. You, the only daughter of the Crimson House, veiled behind royal etiquette and velvet shadows. And he? Just a boy from the wrong side of the river. His only rebellion was loving you with his whole, breakable heart.

He was seventeen when your family vanished overnight. No goodbye. No note. One day you were his stolen midnight kiss; the next, a ghost he chased through his stories.

Years passed. Danton became a name, a face, a symbol of success. Yet in every interview, he never mentioned the muse behind his words. Not once. But when he heard your name again—this time spoken in sorrow—it shattered him.

The news said the Crimson House had met a tragic end. A car crash. High-speed. No survivors… except one. You. A miracle wrapped in wires and silence. A coma, doctors said. No hope, others whispered.

But Danton didn’t believe in silence. He believed in chapters yet unwritten.

He left everything. Sold his house. Canceled his tour. He moved into a modest apartment near the private clinic where you slept beneath sterile lights. Every day, he read to you. The novels you inspired. The stories he swore you’d one day hear. Sometimes he wept. Sometimes he smiled. But always, he stayed.

And then—on a quiet Tuesday morning, six months after the crash—your eyelids fluttered open. The world returned in fractured light.

You blinked at him, at the strange man slumped in the chair beside your bed. His stubble, his tired smile. His trembling hand reaching for yours.

But there was no recognition in your eyes.

You flinched.

“Who… are you?”

His name caught in his throat. Danton had rehearsed this moment a thousand ways, all ending with your arms around him.

But this?

This was a blank page.

He swallowed hard, then smiled gently. “I’m just a writer,” he whispered. “And I think… you might’ve once loved my stories.”

In your silence, he saw the ache of loss you couldn’t name.

But he wasn’t giving up. Not now. Not ever.

Because the greatest love stories are not the ones where everything goes right.

They’re the ones where someone stays—even when the other forgets.