What the Moon Made

NOT SPECIAL

The black Lincoln Nautilus glides through morning traffic with such ease that I barely feel the road beneath us.

Charger sits behind the wheel, one hand resting loosely at the bottom of it. His eyes move constantly—mirrors, intersections, passing vehicles—as though he expects danger to leap from behind every parked car.

I watch him from the passengerd passenger seat.

“So, is Charger your real name?”

His gaze flicks toward me. “No.”

“Are you going to tell me your real name?”

“No.”

“Is it embarrassing?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Extremely.”

“Bartholomew?”

“Worse.”

“Eugene?”

“Now you’re just being cruel.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

He seems less intimidating when he smiles. Still enormous, still built like he spends his free time throwing tree trunks, but slightly more human.

“How did you get the name Charger?”

“That story requires alcohol.”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to keep wondering.”

I settle back against the seat. “Do all of Theo’s employees have secret identities?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

“And Dot?”

“Ask her.”

“Will she tell me?”

“No.”

I stare at him.

He grins.

I decide I might actually like him.

That doesn’t mean I’ve accepted the situation. I still plan to have a serious conversation with Theo about boundaries, consent, and the general etiquette of assigning armed strangers to follow someone without asking.

But Charger makes it difficult to remain properly outraged.

He pulls into the underground garage beneath the newspaper building and parks near the private elevators. By the time I unfasten my seat belt, he is.ready out of the SUV and opening my door.

“I can open a car door,” I tell him.

“I know.”

“I’m also capable of walking into a building alone.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Yet you’re coming with me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re annoyingly agreeable.”

“I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”

He follows me through the garage and into the elevator, standing slightly behind me as the doors close. His body fills half the mirrored space.

When I press the button for my floor, he glances at it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked at the button strangely.”

“I looked at a button.”

“You’re terrible at pretending to be casual.”

“I’m not paid to be casual.”

The elevator climbs.

I study our reflections and try to see us through someone else’s eyes. Me, dressed in clothes that cost more than my car payment, with freshly styled hair and flawless makeup. Charger, looming behind me in a dark suit, looking like he could bench-press the elevator if it stopped working.

No one is going to believe this is normal.

The elevator doors open directly onto the newspaper floor, releasing us into the familiar chaos of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and conversations shouted over cubicle walls.

Charger steps out first.

Several heads turn.

Then several more.

By the time I step out behind him, nearly everyone within sight is staring.

“Great,” I murmur. “Very discreet.”

“I never claimed to be discreet.”

Charger surveys the floor before moving to stand beside the entrance. He folds his hands in front of him, shoulders squared.

I stop. “You’re staying there?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Until you’re ready to leave.”

“You’re going to stand there all day?”

“Yes.”

“Without moving?”

“I might blink occasionally.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

He gives me an innocent look that does not belong on a man his size.

Before I can respond, someone calls my name.

“Willa?”

I turn.

Jamie is already striding toward me.

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his tie is loose, and his dark hair looks as though he has been dragging his hands through it all morning. His eyes move over me quickly before fixing on the fading bruise at my temple.

“What happened to you?”

“Good morning to you too.”

He stops directly in front of me. “I called you. Like twelve times.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I was asleep.”

“For two days?”

“Technically, I was unconscious for part of the first one.”

His face drains of color. “You were what?”

“I can explain.”

His eyes shift toward Charger. “Who is that?”

“My security detail.”

Jamie blinks. “Your what?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m starting to think it might be.”

He reaches for my face but stops before touching the bruise. His hand hangs between us for a moment before dropping to his side.

“Are you okay?”

The anger in his voice disappears, leaving only worry.

Something inside me softens.

“I’m better,” I promise. “My head barely hurts now.”

“What happened?”

“Well, Kyle—”

“Ms. Bennett.”

My shoulders stiffen.

Ryan Mercer stands outside his office, one hand gripping the doorframe. He is in his late forties, although the permanent pinch between his eyebrows makes him look older. His narrow face always seems slightly dissatisfied, as if the entire world has failed to meet a standard only he understands.

Today, that dissatisfied expression is aimed directly at me.

“My office,” he says.

Not good morning.

Not glad to see you’re alive.

Just an order.

I glance at Jamie.

He gives me a look that promises this conversation is not over.

“I’ll be right back.”

Ryan steps aside as I enter his office, then closes the door behind us. The blinds facing the newsroom are partially open. Through the narrow gaps, I can see Jamie hovering near my cubicle and pretending not to watch.

Ryan walks around his desk and sits.

He doesn’t invite me to do the same.

I sit anyway.

He folds his hands over a stack of papers. “Where have you been?”

“I was injured.”

“So I’ve been told.”

His tone makes it sound like a personal inconvenience.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. Everything happened quickly, and I wasn’t exactly in a position to—”

“I received an email excusing your absence.”

I pause.

“Okay.”

“From Theodore De Luca.”

Of course he did.

Apparently, in between moving my plants, replacing my entire wardrobe, stocking a vanity, hiring security, and possibly commanding a small private army, Theo also found time to email my boss.

“I didn’t know he contacted you,” I say.

Ryan leans back in his chair. “Mr. De Luca doesn’t usually involve himself in the attendance records of junior columnists.”

The emphasis on junior is impossible to miss.

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“What exactly is your relationship with Theodore De Luca?”

The question catches me off guard.

“He was the subject of my interview.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

Ryan’s eyes slide toward the bruise on my temple before returning to mine.

Ryan studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment.

I resist the urge to shift in my chair.

Finally, he leans forward.

“Whatever is happening between you and Mr. De Luca, you should understand something. It will not affect how you are treated here.”

My spine straightens. “I wouldn’t expect it to.”

“You’re not special, Willa.”

The words strike harder than they should.

Not because I believe him.

Because for too many years, I did.

I believed I wasn’t pretty enough to demand loyalty from Kyle. Wasn’t talented enough to ask Ryan for better assignments. Wasn’t important enough to take up space without apologizing for it.

But this morning, I woke in a room someone had carefully remade for me.

Maybe that doesn’t make me special.

But it reminds me that I’m allowed to be treated as though I matter.

“I never said I was,” I reply quietly.

Ryan’s gaze moves over me.

Slowly.

His eyes linger on my blouse before dropping to my waist and legs.

A faint smile pulls at his thin mouth.

“You look different today.”

Every muscle in my body tenses.

“Excuse me?”

“Better,” he says. “You look good.”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl.

It isn’t a compliment. It is an inspection.

His gaze lingers again, and suddenly I’m painfully aware that the office door is closed.

I stand.

“Thank you. If that’s everything, I need to finish my column.”

Ryan’s smile fades. “Sit down. I didn’t dismiss you.”

The handle turns before I can answer.

Both of us look toward the door.

It opens slightly, and Charger appears in the gap.

He doesn’t enter. He doesn’t speak.

He simply looks at me.

Then at Ryan.

Ryan’s pinched face tightens further. “Can I help you?”

“No,” Charger says.

He remains exactly where he is.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“I think we’re finished,” I say.

Ryan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t order me to sit again.

I walk out without waiting for permission.

Charger closes the door behind me and falls into step beside me.

“I thought you were staying at the entrance.”

“I was.”

“Then why did you open the door?”

“I didn’t like his tone.”

A strange warmth settles in my chest.

“I could have handled him.”

“I know.”

The answer is immediate.

No doubt. No condescension.

Just certainty.

Charger returns to his post near the elevator without another word.

When I reach my cubicle, Jamie rolls his chair into the aisle and blocks my path.

“Talk.”

“Can I sit down first?”

“No.”

“Jamie.”

“You disappeared for two days, came back with a head injury, designer clothes, and a bodyguard who looks like he guards a portal to another dimension.”

I glance toward Charger. “That is oddly specific.”

“What happened?”

I lower myself into my chair.

Jamie stays directly in front of me, arms folded.

So I tell him.

I tell him everything that happened over the last two days—from finding Kyle with another woman to waking up in Theo’s penthouse and discovering that my entire life had apparently been relocated while I slept.

By the time I finish, Jamie is no longer blocking the aisle.

He is sitting in the chair beside me, staring at the floor.

“You could have stayed with me,” he says.

The hurt in his voice makes my chest ache.

“I know.”

“You should have called me.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve come for you, Willa. It wouldn’t have mattered what time it was or where you were.”

“I was embarrassed.”

His eyes lift to mine.

“I didn’t want you to know,” I continue. “I didn’t want anyone to know that I stayed with Kyle that long just for him to do exactly what everyone probably expected him to do.”

“I never thought that.”

“You hated him.”

“Because he didn’t deserve you.”

His answer comes so quickly that I forget how to breathe.

Jamie looks away first.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and stands.

“I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Just call me next time.”

Before I can respond, he walks back to his desk.

I watch him sit down and pull his keyboard closer, his shoulders rigid beneath his shirt.

Something about the conversation feels unfinished.

But the newsroom is moving around me, Ryan is still watching through the blinds of his office, and I have a column due.

I turn toward my computer.

The blank document on my screen waits beneath the title I typed two days ago.

THE MAN BEHIND THE EMPIRE: AN INTERVIEW WITH THEODORE DE LUCA

I place my fingers over the keyboard.

When I conducted the interview, Theo had been a stranger.

An intimidating, beautiful stranger who watched me too closely and moved his chair close enough that I could smell cedar and smoke on his skin.

Now I know the way his arms feel around me.

I know the sound of his voice when he is worried.

I know how gently he can touch a bruise.

I know he owns the newspaper employing me, knows my clothing sizes, and apparently believes personal boundaries are suggestions meant for other people.

Writing about him objectively is going to be impossible.

I spend the rest of the morning trying anyway.

The words come slowly at first. Every quote carries a new meaning now. Every carefully controlled answer reminds me that Theo reveals only what he chooses.

By 11:30, I have half a draft and twice as many questions.

At 11:59, my phone vibrates against the desk.

A message appears on the screen.

Theo: Meet me in my office for lunch.

No greeting.

No question mark.

No attempt to disguise the command as an invitation.

I stare at it.

Then another message appears.

Theo: Charger will bring you.

A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth.

I type my response.

Me: Do you ever ask for anything?

The typing indicator appears immediately.

Theo: I asked what you wanted for breakfast.

My cheeks warm at the memory of sitting on his kitchen counter while he cooked for me.

Me: That doesn’t count.

His answer arrives seconds later.

Theo: Noon, Willa.

I glance at the clock in the corner of my computer.

12:00 p.m.

When I look toward the entrance, Charger is already standing.

And somehow, from the other side of the city, I can practically feel Theo waiting for me.