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Chapter 58 – What the Moon Knows
The moment the double doors closed behind him, the music faded.
Not in volume — but in relevance.
The laughter, the wine, the ancient aristocrats discussing futures like they owned time — all of it peeled away.
Because she was no longer in the ballroom.
She had walked toward the gardens.
And he had followed.
The corridor stretched in silence. Crystal sconces bathed the white marble in fractured light, and his footsteps were soundless — not because he tried, but because he couldn't feel his own body anymore. He wasn't walking; he was pulled, the same way the tide obeys the moon.
Through the glass archways, the garden unfurled like something out of forgotten mythology. No gardener had designed this — it was too perfect, too ancient. A marble path wound through sleeping wisteria, vines trained across wrought iron lattices that shimmered with condensation. The moonlight spilled like water, soft and sacred.
And there she was.
Standing at the edge of the fountain, her back to him.
Anastasia Celeste Volkov.
He hadn't spoken to her in years — not truly — but he'd spoken to her every day. Through lyrics, through silence, through the ache of every second he spent without her name on his lips.
He should have rehearsed what to say.
But love this long didn't obey rehearsal.
Jaeheon took a breath. And it felt like his first in hours.
"I've loved you since I was fifteen."
The words dropped like glass — fragile and loud.
She didn't turn.
Didn't breathe in sharply. Didn't speak.
But she heard it.
He could tell by the stillness in her posture — not avoidance, not shock — but calculated acceptance. As if she had been expecting this moment. As if she had predicted it, down to the second.
He stepped forward. Not too close.
He didn't want to invade her space — only share it.
"I never said it. Not once. Not to anyone," he said softly. "Not my group. Not my family. Not even in my own lyrics, not directly. I thought if I named you… I'd lose you."
A pause.
The wind curled through the vines, tugging at his collar like a whisper.
"I remember every second from that night," he continued. "The ball. The gold and diamonds. The dress you wore. The way you stood, as if the world was beneath you. I thought… I'd never see anything more beautiful than that. And I was right. I never have."
His voice never broke. But his hands — clenched at his sides — trembled slightly.
She still didn't speak.
But she was listening.
Every detail of her silence told him so.
So he kept going.
For three hours.
He spoke.
About the years of watching her from afar.
About how his every milestone felt hollow because she wasn't there to see it.
About how he would walk off stage to screaming fans and think only of how quiet her gaze must be.
He told her how every moment he smiled in public was a performance — that his real joy was when he thought of her.
He told her how he imagined her voice — not because he'd forgotten it, but because he needed it to survive.
And he told her something he'd never told another soul.
"That day I wrote my first love song… I didn't know what love really was. I still don't. But I knew that if love had a shape, it would look like you."
The moon shifted behind a cloud.
She finally turned.
And her expression — god, it was unreadable.
Not blank. Not cruel. Not kind.
Untranslatable.
And when she spoke, her voice was exactly as he remembered — like steel sharpened in snow.
"You want to prove it?"
He nodded. Not desperately — but with quiet, absolute certainty.
She tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle that might be real or a myth.
"Then prove it. You can be my testing boyfriend."
She didn't flinch at the words.
But he did.
Not because they were cruel — but because she was letting him close.
Even this much was everything.
"There will be no labels. No expectations. I can walk away whenever I decide. This is a test. I don't want someone who loves power. I want to know if it's really me you want. Not the myth."
Jaeheon stepped forward, just once.
He bowed his head slightly, voice low.
"I don't care if I fail every test. As long as you're the one grading me."
She stared at him for a long, long time.
And then — without another word — she turned and walked back through the garden.
Disappearing into the stone archway.
He didn't follow.
He stayed.
Alone. At the fountain. Staring at the water like it held her reflection.
She hadn't said yes.
She hadn't said no.
But she had offered him a path.
Even if it was one of thorns.
And that was more than he'd ever expected.
When he finally returned to the ballroom, he was silent.
When he stepped into the car, he said nothing.