Davis
The first time Davis Carter saw Crystella Luna Powers, he was thirteen. He stood by the entrance to the garden, his hands stuffed into his pockets, unsure whether to walk in. The charity event hosted by Crystella's mother was in full swing—a mix of sophistication, power, and wealth on display.
From a young age, Davis had never been comfortable at these gatherings, but his parents always insisted on him attending.
Then he spotted Crystella by the fountain, her head slightly tilted as she looked at the shimmering water. She wore a simple white dress, her hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves. Her grandmother had dressed her impeccably, as always. She was only ten at the time.
Her skin was the shade of warm honey, and her face—heart-shaped and framed by thick, chocolate-brown curls—looked almost doll-like in its symmetry. Soft, arched brows rested above her wide, almond-shaped eyes the color of melted caramel, glowing with a quiet intelligence.
A small button nose and rosebud lips completed her delicate features. A blush-pink satin ribbon was tied into her curls, matching the ballet flats on her feet and adding a touch of girlish charm. She looked like she had stepped right out of a storybook—elegant, composed, and entirely unforgettable.
Davis couldn't remember a time when he hadn't noticed her. They'd known each other for years, crossing paths at family events, always polite but distant. But something shifted that day. She wasn't the same girl he'd known before—something about her had changed.
She stood there, completely out of place at the event thrown by her own mother, yet owning every inch of space as if she had carved it out for herself. The way she held her head high, even as people whispered about her, left Davis in awe. Nobody knew why she had moved in with her grandmother two years ago, and no other ten-year-old he knew could withstand that kind of scrutiny with such unflinching poise. He remembered being breathless.
And that was it for him.
At thirteen, he didn't yet understand the weight of love or what it could mean. All he knew was that when he saw her standing there, something shifted inside him. As if some quiet, steady part of him had decided, right there amidst the blinding chandeliers and polished marble floors, that Crystella Luna Powers would be his everything.
She hadn't noticed him that day. Not that it mattered. Davis didn't need her to see him; he just needed her to exist in that defiant, magnetic way she did. That was enough—for a while.
But even as he told himself it was just a crush, something temporary that would fade, the feeling never left. Through the awkward years of high school, when his friends chased after girls and he tried to keep up, it remained. He dated here and there, but it never amounted to much. Because none of them were Crystella.
It wasn't fair to the girls he dated, and he knew that. He tried to give them a chance, convinced that with time he could let go of the image of the girl by the fountain. But every time, his mind drifted back to her—her fierce independence, her silent strength, the way she commanded attention without even trying. It was like she had imprinted herself on his soul that day, and nothing could erase it.
He wanted to move on, to forget about her. At times, he was almost angry at himself for holding on so tightly to someone who barely knew he existed. But his heart was relentless. It wouldn't let go, no matter how hard he tried.
And so, through the years, Davis found himself always watching, always waiting—hoping that one day she might see him. But with each passing year, Crystella grew more distant, more untouchable. Her life was a whirlwind of ambition and responsibility, far removed from the quiet yearning that Davis carried with him.
Then came the reading of the will.
The first thought that crossed his mind when he heard his name tied to hers wasn't about the fortune, the business, or the expectations of their families. It wasn't even about what the press would say when the news inevitably leaked.
It was, What will she think of this? Of me?
Because while the world was about to change for both of them, all Davis could focus on was the fear that Crystella might resent him for something he had no control over. The arrangement didn't matter to him, not in the way it might have mattered to others. The only thing he cared about was whether Crystella would ever be able to look at him and see more than just an obligation forced upon her by their families.
Could she ever see him the way he had seen her—since that fateful day at thirteen?
That question lingered in Davis' mind long after the will reading, circling through his thoughts like a storm that refused to settle. As he sat in his car, parked outside the imposing gates of the Powers estate, he couldn't bring himself to drive away. Not yet.
The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of everything that had just transpired. He could still see Crystella's face in his mind—her shock, her disbelief. The sharpness in her eyes when the lawyer had read the condition. She had barely looked at him. He had wanted to speak up, to say something, anything, but what was there to say?
It wasn't like he had a choice either.
They were both caught in this—bound by a legacy neither of them had fully understood until now. He wondered how she felt about it. If she saw this arrangement as just another burden. Another cage built by her grandmother's iron will.
Davis sighed, rubbing his temples. He had always known his feelings for Crystella would complicate things, but now it felt like everything had spiraled into something far beyond his control.
The weeks that followed were... strange, to say the least. There was no grand confrontation, no tear-filled conversation about what the future held. Instead, they fell into an awkward silence, moving forward as though this arrangement was something they had both accepted without question.
Their families pushed them along. Formal dinners were scheduled. Photographers were hired. Invitations were sent out. Davis found himself in tailored suits more often than not, standing beside Crystella at endless engagement parties and family gatherings. She was always poised, her expression unreadable, and Davis wondered if she ever thought about that day by the fountain—if she ever thought about him in any real way.
There were moments, though, when he caught a glimpse of something beneath her composed exterior. A flash of uncertainty in her eyes, a slight tremble in her voice when she thought no one was listening. But it was always brief—gone before he could even consider reaching out.
Their courtship was a formality, nothing more. A series of planned events meant to display their supposed union to the world. Davis played his part well, offering her his arm when the cameras were watching, smiling politely at the endless congratulations from guests who barely knew them. But beneath the surface, he couldn't help but feel like they were both just going through the motions, ticking off boxes in a checklist neither of them had written.
The engagement came next—a grand affair that Crystella's mother insisted on orchestrating down to the last detail. It was held in a lavish ballroom, all shimmering chandeliers and gold-trimmed decorations. The air was thick with the scent of roses and champagne. Davis could hardly breathe.
He remembered standing by her side as their families mingled, watching her interact with the guests. She was perfect, as always. Her smile never wavered, her posture never faltered. But when she thought no one was looking, Davis noticed the way her fingers would fidget with the hem of her dress, the way her gaze would occasionally drift off, as if she were somewhere far away.
They barely spoke that night. Every word exchanged between them felt rehearsed, calculated for the benefit of those watching. It was suffocating.
And then came the wedding.
It was a beautiful ceremony, just as everyone had expected it to be. Crystella wore a stunning gown, her hair cascading in soft waves down her back, and Davis could hardly take his eyes off her. She looked every bit the part of a bride—elegant, composed, untouchable.
But even as they stood at the altar, reciting their vows, Davis couldn't shake the feeling that this was all just another performance. That this was nothing more than an elaborate play put on for the sake of their families and the press.
Crystella's eyes were distant as they exchanged rings, her voice steady but hollow as she repeated the words the officiant had given them. Davis felt a pang in his chest as he slid the ring onto her finger, wondering if this would ever be real for her. If she would ever look at him and see something more than just an obligation.
The reception was grand, of course. A celebration of two powerful families coming together. Davis played his part, so did Crystella. They danced, they smiled for the cameras, they exchanged polite words with the guests. But beneath it all, Davis could feel the weight of what wasn't being said between them. The unspoken distance that stretched like a chasm between them.
And now, months later, they found themselves in the kitchen. The silence between them had grown comfortable, but the distance was still there. Davis wasn't sure what to do with it—how to bridge the gap that had formed between them.
He glanced over at Crystella as she sipped her milk, her eyes lost in thought. She looked... tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. And for the first time in a long while, Davis felt a pang of sympathy for her. They were both trapped in this—two people who had been thrust into a life neither of them had chosen.
But maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to make it work.
He leaned back against the counter, the cool surface grounding him as he considered what to say. They had both fallen into a rhythm—silent, distant, but not entirely disconnected. There were moments, fleeting but real, when he thought they might actually be able to make this work. Moments when her eyes softened just enough to make him believe that maybe, just maybe, she didn't resent him as much as he feared.
And then there were nights like this. Nights when the silence between them felt like a chasm neither of them knew how to cross.
And sometimes, words felt stuck in his throat, like there was too much he wanted to tell her but not enough courage to say it. He wanted to tell her that he understood—that he, too, was struggling under the weight of it all. But the words never came.
Instead, they sat there in the quiet, the distance between them feeling both insurmountable and oddly comforting.
And in that moment, he felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe they could make this work. Maybe there was a way forward for both of them.