Her First, His Forever

I didn’t believe in monsters.

I believed in overdue bills tucked beneath my door. In the smell of burnt coffee clinging to my clothes after double shifts. In the ache that settled into my bones every winter when Chicago turned cruel and gray. Monsters were fantasies—stories people told to make the dark feel interesting instead of empty.

That belief shattered the night I met Lucien Moreau.

I was working a private charity gala at Moreau Tower, a name that carried weight in the city. Moreau Investments funded hospitals, universities, entire neighborhoods. Lucien Moreau himself was a rumor more than a man—reclusive, untouchable, devastatingly wealthy. I’d never seen him before, only his name stamped on contracts and whispered about in break rooms.

By nine p.m., my feet ached and my smile felt glued on. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over marble floors. Laughter drifted between clusters of wealthy donors in tuxedos and gowns that cost more than my rent for a year. I moved through them with a silver tray balanced on my palm, invisible the way staff were meant to be.

Until the air changed.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a subtle tightening in my chest, like the moment before a storm breaks. Conversations softened. Laughter dipped. I glanced up instinctively.

The crowd parted.

He walked in as if the room belonged to him—not arrogantly, but with a quiet certainty that bent attention in his direction. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a black tuxedo that fit him like it had been tailored to his bones. His hair was dark, brushed back from a sharp, elegant face that looked carved rather than born.

But it was his eyes that stopped me.

Warm amber. Whiskey-dark. Too old. Too knowing.

They found me immediately.

The tray wobbled in my hands.

I’d been stared at before—men lingering too long, appraising, dismissive. This was different. His gaze locked onto me with unnerving intensity, like he’d felt something snap into place the moment he saw me.

My heart stumbled.

Hard enough that I had to steady myself.

Get it together, Isla.

I took a breath, smoothed my expression into polite neutrality, and stepped forward. “Champagne, sir?”

He stopped in front of me.

Up close, he was… overwhelming. Not loud. Not flashy. Just intensely present. The scent of him surrounded me—clean, sharp, edged with something metallic that made my skin prickle.

His eyes flicked briefly to my wrist where my sleeve had slid back.

Something dark crossed his face.

“Your name,” he said softly.

His voice slid over my skin, deep and textured, accented faintly with something European. French, maybe. Old.

“I—” I hesitated, then answered before I could stop myself. “Isla.”

I never gave guests my name.

His lips parted slightly, as if he were tasting it.

“Isla,” he repeated.

Heat curled low in my stomach.

“I’m Lucien.”

As if I didn’t already know.

His fingers brushed mine as he took a glass. The contact lasted less than a second.

His skin was cold.

Not winter-cold.

Not air-conditioned-cold.

Stone-cold.

A sharp breath escaped me before I could stop it.

His gaze snapped back to my face, pupils dilating.

Something like panic flickered there—quick and controlled.

He stepped back abruptly, creating space.

“Be careful tonight,” he murmured.

I frowned. “Of what?”

His gaze drifted over my shoulder, scanning the room with unnerving precision. “Of me.”

Then someone called his name, and he turned away as if nothing had happened.

I stood there, pulse racing, staring after him long after he disappeared into the crowd.

I told myself it was nerves.

I told myself I was imagining things.

I was wrong.

⸻

I didn’t see him again until close to midnight.

The gala was winding down. Guests collected coats and champagne flutes clinked into bins. My shoulders sagged with exhaustion as I slipped into a quieter hallway near the private offices, hoping for thirty seconds of silence.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

The air shifted again.

My eyes opened.

He stood at the far end of the corridor, half in shadow, watching me.

My heart leapt into my throat.

“You shouldn’t be back here,” I said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“You shouldn’t either.”

His footsteps were soundless against the marble floor as he approached. Each step made the space feel smaller.

“I was just resting,” I said.

“I know.”

That alone should have sent me running.

Instead, I stayed still.

“You intrigue me, Isla,” he said quietly.

The way he said my name felt intimate. Dangerous.

“I’m just a caterer,” I replied.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

I laughed nervously. “You don’t know anything about me.”

His gaze dropped briefly to my throat, where my pulse beat hard beneath my skin.

“I know enough.”

My breath caught.

“Mr. Moreau—”

“Lucien.”

I corrected myself automatically.

He stepped closer, close enough that the chill radiating from him brushed my skin. My back met the wall.

His hand lifted, hovering near my cheek.

Paused.

Waiting.

I didn’t understand why I nodded.

His fingers brushed my jaw—light, careful.

And then he froze.

His eyes shut. A low, strained sound escaped his chest, like a growl swallowed down.

His hand dropped instantly.

“I should not touch you,” he said.

“Why?” I whispered.

His eyes opened, darker now.

“You have no idea what you are.”

A nervous laugh bubbled up. “I’m pretty sure I’m just a broke grad student.”

“You are more than that.”

Something in his tone made my stomach tighten.

“This is insane,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed calmly.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

“Vampires don’t exist,” I whispered.

“Most humans prefer to believe that.”

Cold slid down my spine.

“You’re not serious.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“I have lived a very long time,” he said instead. “Long enough to know when something impossible stands in front of me.”

“What does my blood have to do with anything?” I asked, dread coiling in my chest.

His jaw clenched.

“There is something in it,” he admitted. “Something I have never encountered in over four hundred years.”

The number echoed in my head.

“You’re saying you’re—”

“A vampire,” he finished quietly.

I should have laughed.

I should have screamed.

I did neither.

Because every instinct I had was telling me one terrifying thing.

He was telling the truth.

“You’re afraid,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Of hurting me?”

“Yes.”

“And you still came near me.”

His gaze softened. “I wanted to see if the pull was real.”

“And is it?”

His eyes burned into mine.

“It is worse than I feared.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and charged.

“You told me to be careful of you,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No,” he said instantly. “I will leave before I allow that.”

The certainty in his voice made something in my chest ache.

“Tomorrow night,” he said. “Dinner. Not as staff.”

My pulse fluttered.

“A date?”

“If you survive it.”

Despite everything, a thrill ran through me.

“I’ll take my chances.”

His lips curved faintly. “Until tomorrow, Isla.”

And then he was gone.

Not walking away.

Gone.

The hallway empty where he’d stood.

I slid down the wall, heart racing, hands shaking.

Monsters weren’t real.

Except Lucien Moreau was.

And somehow, impossibly—

He wanted me.

And deep in my veins, something stirred in answer.