Unwritten Desires

Chapter 1: The Reluctant Muse

by Roxanne Rene

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Jewel Marino had crafted over twenty fictional first kisses, ten ardent confessions, and at least four heartbreaks so raw they moved her editor to tears.

But in the realm of reality?

She was utterly lost.

It wasn’t for lack of inspiration. Jewel had immersed herself in love stories as if they were her lifeblood—sometimes, they truly were.

When her mom left, she quickly learned that love was not always enduring.

When her father wept silently behind closed doors, it dawned on her that love wasn’t always sufficient.

So, instead of seeking it, Jewel poured it into her writing.

And now, at twenty-three, she was an emerging star in Contemporary Romance. Readers adored her witty heroines and emotionally complex love stories. Her characters fell hard, stumbled, rose again, and—somehow—found a path to love once more.

But Jewel?

She confined herself to the safety of her pages.

Until Lucian Cyril, her infuriatingly laid-back and unnervingly perceptive editor, reached out one morning with two words that nearly unraveled her entire career:

“Collaboration opportunity.”

With Griffin Royce.

The Griffin Royce.

A titan of paranormal romance. A man who wove shadows and sharp dialogue into a kingdom, laced with gothic allure and brooding heroes women longed to mend.

She had read one of his books. Once.

Then hurled it across the room.

Because it was good. Unbearably good.

And now, she was to work with him, merge their genres, and hold herself together?

Worse—not fall for him?

Impossible.

Jewel slammed her laptop shut, muttering, “No man writes tortured demons that convincingly unless he is one himself.”

This wasn’t a romance novel.

There would be no slow burn. No tension. No heartfelt confession in the rain or surprise kiss in a dim hallway.

Just business.

Strictly business.

And if her heart fluttered when she first met him?

She’d chalk it up to caffeine.

Or past trauma.

Certainly not attraction.

Because she didn’t do muses.

Especially not ones with sinful smirks and jawlines that seemed sculpted from heartbreak.

No.

Jewel Marino was a writer.

And she intended to write her own ending.

But would even if it tore her apart.

* * *

“Mint, what do you think?” Jewel asked, reaching down to scratch her tuxedo cat behind the ears. The feline merely blinked lazily, stretched, and resumed his position on the manuscript pages scattered across the floor.

“Exactly. Complete disaster.” She paced her small apartment, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. The meeting with Griffin and Lucian was tomorrow, and she’d spent the past three hours trying on and discarding outfits like she was auditioning for a reality show.

Her phone buzzed. Dad.

“Hey, sweetheart. Just checking if you’ve had dinner. I made extra lasagna.”

Jewel smiled despite herself. “Dad, it’s almost midnight.”

“And? Your best ideas come at midnight. Writers need fuel.”

She glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror—hair piled messily atop her head, dark circles framing eyes that had seen too many rewrites and not enough sleep. “I’m fine. Just… preparing for tomorrow.”

“Ah, the big meeting with Mr. High-and-Mighty Romance?”

“Griffin Royce,” she corrected automatically, then winced at how his name sounded on her lips. Too familiar. Too soft.

“You know what your mother would say—”

“Dad,” Jewel interrupted, “Mom left when I was twelve. I don’t think her advice applies to my writing career.”

A pause. “She’d say, don’t let anyone make you feel small.”

The words hung in the air, uncomfortably true. Jewel sank onto her couch, pushing aside a stack of research notes.

“What if I can’t do this?” she whispered. “What if he’s right about my writing?”

“Then prove him wrong,” Enzo replied. “You didn’t get this far by letting critics define you. And if he’s really such a pain, you can always kill him off in your next book. Very slowly.”

Jewel laughed, tension easing from her shoulders. “Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“Only if they find the body.” Her father’s voice softened. “You’re Jewel Marino. You’ve been telling stories since you could talk. This collaboration is just another chapter.”

After hanging up, Jewel retrieved her notebook and flipped to a fresh page. She scrawled “Griffin Royce: Survival Guide” at the top, then underneath:

1. Professional distance at all times

2. No caffeine before meetings (jitters make you ramble)

3. DO NOT mention the interview

4. Stand your ground on creative decisions

5. Remember: he needs this collaboration, too

She stared at the last point, circling it twice. Whatever his reasons, Griffin Royce had agreed to this project. She wasn’t the only one with something to prove.

Mint jumped onto the table, batting at her pen.

“You’re right,” Jewel said, scratching under the cat’s chin. “One more rule.” She added a sixth item to her list:

6. Remember who you are.

Pushing herself off the couch, Jewel padded to her closet. The wardrobe crisis could wait until morning. What couldn’t wait was getting her thoughts in order about the actual project.

Jewel pulled out her dog-eared copy of Griffin’s bestseller, “Midnight’s Embrace,” from her nightstand drawer. She’d hidden it beneath three romance craft books and a dictionary, as if afraid the book might somehow betray her admiration for his work. The cover featured a brooding vampire with impossible cheekbones against a gothic cityscape. Reluctantly, she had to admit the man knew how to craft atmosphere.

“This doesn’t mean I like him,” she told Mint, who had followed her to the bedroom and was now watching with judging eyes. “It’s research.”

She flipped through the pages, noting his transitions, the way he built tension, how his dialogue crackled with subtext. Despite herself, Jewel was drawn into the world again—the way darkness felt tangible in his prose, how his characters’ longing transcended centuries.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Lucian: *Reservation at Athena’s Bistro, 1 PM. Dress code: professional but approachable. And Jewel? Breathe.*

“Professional but approachable,” she muttered. “What does that even mean? Should I wear a blazer with cartoon characters on it?”

Sleep eluded her as she tossed and turned, her mind conjuring increasingly disastrous scenarios for tomorrow’s meeting. Griffin dismissing her ideas with a wave of his hand. Griffin quoting her worst paragraphs from memory. Griffin suggesting she’d be better suited to writing children’s books.

By 3 AM, she’d given up and retreated to her tiny kitchen, brewing coffee strong enough to strip paint. She pulled out her latest manuscript—the one Lucian had called “promising but safe”—and began to mark it up with ruthless honesty.

If Griffin Royce was going to tear her writing apart, she’d do it first.

The sun was peeking through her blinds when Jewel finally collapsed into bed, ink-stained fingers and all. The last thought before sleep claimed her was not of plots, characters, or clever dialogue.

It was wondering if Griffin Royce’s eyes were as intense in person as they appeared in his author photo.

* * *

The bistro was everything Jewel had feared—elegant, understated, and filled with the kind of people who didn’t need to check prices on menus. She arrived twenty minutes early, her hair for once cooperating in loose waves, wearing a navy blazer over a simple white blouse and dark jeans. Professional but approachable. Whatever that meant.

“Ms. Marino?” The hostess smiled. “Mr. Cyril has already arrived. This way, please.”

Lucian sat at a corner table, martini in hand despite the early hour, scrolling through his phone with the practiced nonchalance of someone who orchestrated literary disasters for a living.

“Mari!” He stood, kissing both her cheeks. “You look absolutely professional but approachable.”

“Is that code for ‘you clean up nice’?” She slid into the chair opposite him, willing her hands not to fidget. “Where’s the Prince of Darkness?”

Lucian’s lips twitched. “Griffin is running a few minutes behind. Something about his agent and a contract dispute.” He leaned forward. “Which gives us time for a quick strategy session. How are we feeling?”

“Like I’m about to pitch to a shark while covered in chum.”

“Colorful, but inaccurate.” Lucian signaled for a waiter. “Griffin isn’t as terrible as his reputation suggests.”

“You mean the reputation where he called my dialogue ‘painfully contrived’ and my plot structure ‘as predictable as a rom-com marathon’?”

“He was having a bad day.”

“For the entire interview?”

The waiter arrived, saving Lucian from answering. Jewel ordered sparkling water, determined to keep her wits about her.

“Look,” Lucian said once they were alone again, “Griffin’s… particular. But he wouldn’t have agreed to this if he didn’t see potential in your work.”

Jewel snorted. “Potential for improvement, maybe.”

“Potential for something extraordinary.” Lucian’s gaze softened. “This isn’t just about sales, Jewel. Your contemporary perspective combined with his atmospheric worldbuilding could create something genuinely new.”

Before she could respond, the restaurant’s atmosphere shifted subtly. Conversations hushed. Heads turned.

And Jewel knew, without looking, that Griffin Royce had arrived.

She’d prepared herself for his physical presence—the author photos, the rare interviews, the carefully curated social media. But nothing had prepared her for the gravitational pull of the man as he moved through the restaurant, tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair just disheveled enough to suggest he’d run his hands through it in frustration.

When his eyes—blue-gray and sharp as winter—locked onto hers, Jewel’s carefully rehearsed greeting evaporated.

“Ms. Marino.” His voice was deeper in person, with an edge that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

Of all the ways she’d imagined this meeting starting, that hadn’t been one of them.

“For what?” she managed, proud that her voice remained steady.

Griffin took the seat beside Lucian, his movements precise. “For being late. Traffic was abysmal.”

“Oh.” Jewel swallowed her disappointment. What had she expected? A grand mea culpa for the interview?

A smile played at the corner of his mouth, as if he found her reaction amusing. Insufferable.

“I took the liberty of reviewing your most recent manuscript,” Griffin said, unfolding his napkin with meticulous precision. “The one about the wedding planner and the divorce attorney.”

Jewel’s stomach dropped. “You what?” She shot Lucian a betrayed look.

Lucian raised his hands defensively. “Standard procedure for a collaboration. You received his latest draft too.”

“Which I’m assuming you haven’t read,” Griffin observed, his tone neutral but his eyes knowing.

“I—” Jewel faltered, heat crawling up her neck. She had indeed received Griffin’s manuscript—”Shadow’s Embrace,” the sequel to his bestseller—but had deliberately left it unopened on her tablet. A petty act of rebellion that now made her look unprofessional.

“I thought I’d save it for the weekend,” she lied, “when I could give it my full attention.”

Griffin’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “How considerate.”

Lucian cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could order before diving into the manuscripts? The seafood risotto is exceptional.”

As they studied their menus, Jewel stole glances at Griffin. Up close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his jaw clenched slightly when the waiter approached. Not just intimidatingly handsome, but human. Somehow, that made him more dangerous.

“So,” Griffin said after they’d ordered, folding his hands on the table. “Your wedding planner has potential.”

Jewel braced herself for the inevitable ‘but.’

“She’s sharp, wounded in ways she doesn’t fully understand, and uses humor as armor.” His eyes met hers directly. “Familiar territory for you?”

The question caught her off guard. Was he suggesting her protagonist was autobiographical, or worse—that he’d seen through to Jewel’s own defenses?

“All characters contain fragments of their creators,” she replied carefully. “Just as your brooding vampire lord has your particular gift for self-flagellation,” she finished, matching his directness.

A flicker of surprise crossed his features—there and gone in an instant—before his mouth curved into something almost like approval. “Touché, Ms. Marino.”

“Jewel,” she corrected. If they were going to spend months crafting a novel together, formality seemed pointless.

“Griffin,” he offered in return, inclining his head slightly.

Lucian beamed between them like a matchmaker whose charges had finally agreed to coffee. “Excellent! Now that we’re all on first-name basis, let’s discuss the project parameters.”

As Lucian launched into his vision for their collaboration—a genre-blending novel that would appeal to both their readerships while pushing boundaries—Jewel found herself distracted by Griffin’s hands. Long-fingered and elegant, they moved with precision as he made notes in a small leather-bound journal. The hands of someone who crafted worlds with careful intention.

“…which brings us to setting,” Lucian was saying. “We’ve arranged for both of you to spend six weeks at The Inkwell.”

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