What the Moon Made

ROOM FOR ME

Sunlight presses warm against my eyelids.

For one quiet moment, I don’t remember where I am.

The mattress beneath me is too soft. The sheets smell faintly of cedar and smoke instead of the cheap lavender detergent I buy whenever it’s on sale. There is no traffic rumbling beneath my bedroom window, no pipes knocking inside the walls, and no Kyle snoring beside me.

Kyle.

The memory returns in fractured pieces.

A woman in our bed.

His hand striking my face.

The floor rushing toward me.

Theo.

I open my eyes.

My head doesn’t pound the way it did yesterday. There is still a dull ache near my temple, but the nausea is gone, and the room has stopped tilting every time I breathe too deeply.

I push myself upright carefully, waiting for dizziness to pull me back down.

It doesn’t.

For the first time since waking up in Theo’s bed, I feel almost human.

I glance toward the windows and freeze.

The sky beyond them is bright, but the light has the pale golden quality of morning rather than afternoon.

No.

There is no possible way.

I search the nightstand for my phone and find it plugged into a charger I don’t recognize. When I tap the screen, the time appears.

8:14 am

The date beneath it confirms what my body already knows.

I slept through the entire day yesterday.

Apparently, getting slapped, falling unconscious, and being abducted by your terrifyingly attractive boss is exhausting.

I lower my phone and finally look around the room.

It’s empty.

Theo must not have slept here. Not that I would have minded waking up beside him.

The thought slips in so easily that I nearly choke on it.

I absolutely would have minded.

Probably.

I throw back the covers, then pause.

Something is different.

At first, I can’t figure out what it is. The bedroom still has the same dark masculine furniture, enormous windows, and black bedding. Yet it no longer looks exactly as it did yesterday.

My gaze drifts toward the windows.

“No way.”

My jade pothos sits in a large ceramic planter beside the glass, its long green vines spilling over the edge. Next to it stands my snake plant, tall and stubborn and leaning slightly to one side because I always forget to rotate it.

I know those plants.

I bought the pothos when I moved into my apartment with Kyle. It was little more than three leaves at the time. The snake plant came from Jamie after I somehow killed the supposedly indestructible succulent he gave me for my birthday.

They belong in my apartment.

Not here.

I climb out of bed and cross the room. My bare feet sink into the thick rug as I touch one of the pothos leaves.

It’s real.

So is the small chip near the rim of the planter—the one Kyle made when he knocked it off the windowsill and blamed me for putting it too close to the edge.

How did Theo get these?

More importantly, when did Theo get these?

I turn around, and that’s when I notice the vanity.

It sits against the wall where an armchair had been yesterday. Sleek black wood, gold handles, and a mirror surrounded by soft lights. The surface is organized with an almost frightening degree of precision.

I walk over slowly.

The drawers contain makeup.

Not just makeup.

Expensive makeup.

Foundations and concealers in what appears to be my exact shade. Fenty lip glosses. Estée Lauder palettes. Brushes so soft I’m almost afraid to touch them. One drawer is filled with hair products, while another holds a Dyson Airwrap with every attachment arranged neatly beside it.

I pick up one bottle and stare at the label.

It is the same curl cream I keep buying despite promising myself every month that I’m going to find something cheaper.

A cold little shiver crawls along my spine.

This isn’t a random collection of things someone ordered for a woman.

These are my things.

Or identical versions of them.

I look toward the bedroom door.

“Theo?”

Silence answers me.

The rational part of my brain tells me there must be an explanation. Maybe Elena helped. Maybe someone went to my apartment with a list. Maybe rich people have assistants trained to identify foundation shades and preferred hair products through some deeply invasive form of sorcery.

Then I notice another door standing slightly open.

I push it wider.

The light comes on automatically, revealing a walk-in closet larger than my entire childhood bedroom.

Rows of clothes hang beneath recessed lighting, organized by color and style. Blouses, fitted trousers, skirts, and dresses fill one side. The other holds evening gowns ranging from elegant to indecent.

Beneath them are shelves of shoes.

Flats.

Heels.

Boots.

Strappy sandals that look as though they cost more than my monthly rent.

I reach for the nearest blouse and check the tag.

My size.

The trousers beside it are my size too.

So is the dress behind them.

Every single piece of clothing in this room is meant for me.

“What the hell?”

I move to the dresser at the center of the closet and pull open the top drawer.

Bras.

Designer ones.

And they are the correct size.

My cheeks catch fire.

There are matching panties in the next drawer, everything folded into perfect little rows. Lace, silk, cotton. Black, white, blush pink, and several shades of red that I would never willingly purchase for myself.

I slam the drawer closed.

Theo De Luca knows my bra size.

I don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.

Mostly horrified.

Possibly a little impressed.

I open another drawer in search of pajamas, but find nothing except neatly folded workout clothes. The final drawer contains a row of plain white T-shirts.

Finally.

Something normal.

I pull one out and let the fabric unfold between my hands. It’s far too large to be mine. The material is soft and worn, unlike everything else in the closet, and there’s no tag hanging from it.

I run my fingers over the collar.

Then, without thinking, I lift it to my nose.

Cedar.

Smoke.

Theo.

My stomach tightens.

These aren’t shirts someone purchased for me.

They belong to him.

I look at the others. Some are perfectly white, while others have the faint softness that comes only from being washed and worn countless times.

His shirts are in this closet.

My clothes are in this closet.

My plants are beside his window.

I step back and take in the space with fresh eyes.

The bedroom. The vanity. The closet. Everything chosen in my size and arranged beside his belongings as if this is where I’m supposed to live.

As if he expects me to stay.

And all of it appeared while I was asleep.

A sensible woman would be alarmed.

A sensible woman would gather her phone, leave immediately, and possibly contact the police.

Unfortunately, the thought of Theo personally placing his shirts in a drawer for me sends warmth curling low in my stomach.

“I have a concussion,” I whisper. “That has to be it.”

It is the only reasonable explanation for why this feels less like imprisonment and more like being dropped into the beginning of a very expensive fairy tale.

I take one of the shopping bags tucked beneath the hanging clothes into the bathroom and find unopened toiletries inside. Everything I could need is there, including my usual shampoo and conditioner.

Of course it is.

The shower helps clear the last remnants of sleep from my head. By the time I step out, wrapped in a towel thick enough to qualify as a blanket, I feel better than I have any right to.

I choose a black blouse and khaki trousers from the closet, pairing them with brown heels. The fit is perfect.

Naturally.

At the vanity, I dry and style my hair with the Dyson, resisting the urge to make delighted noises when it works exactly as well as every woman on the internet promised it would. Then I apply a light layer of makeup to conceal the bruising near my temple.

When I’m finished, I stare at my reflection.

I look rested.

Polished.

Expensive.

Nothing like the woman who ran barefoot from her apartment after discovering her boyfriend in bed with someone else.

My chest tightens, but the pain doesn’t cut as deeply as I expect.

Maybe I’m still numb.

Or maybe some part of me had known for a long time that Kyle was never going to become the man I kept waiting for him to be.

I stand and smooth my hands over my trousers.

For the first time in years, I feel like myself.

No.

I feel better than myself.

I feel like the version of me I always thought I would become eventually.

The bedroom is silent when I step out of the closet. Theo still hasn’t appeared, and I hear nothing beyond the door.

I open it and walk into the main living area.

“Theo?”

Nothing.

The penthouse feels different without him in it. Larger. Colder. Less alive.

I hate how quickly I notice his absence.

On the kitchen island, beside a covered plate of breakfast and a fresh cup of coffee, is a folded piece of thick cream-colored paper.

My name is written across the front in bold black ink.

I unfold it.

Willa,

You needed the rest, so I didn’t wake you. I’ve gone to the office. Eat breakfast and have a good day. I’ll see you later.

—Theo

That’s it.

No explanation for the clothes.

No mention of the plants.

Not even a passing acknowledgment that he somehow transformed half of his bedroom into a luxury department store while I slept.

I read the note again.

I’ll see you later.

Not if.

Not call me.

Not even let me know what you decide to do.

He writes it as though my return is already settled.

As though I belong here.

I should be angry.

Instead, I run my thumb across his handwriting and smile.

“This is how women get murdered,” I mutter.

Although I doubt most murderers provide their victims with Estée Lauder and a Dyson first.

I fold the note and slip it into my purse rather than leaving it on the counter.

I eat a piece of toast, drink half the coffee, and spend several minutes arguing with myself over whether accepting any of this makes me naïve.

It feels too perfect.

Like waking inside a castle and being told everything within it belongs to me.

I’ve never been a princess. Princesses don’t grow up measuring every purchase against the electric bill. They don’t stay with men like Kyle because splitting the rent makes life easier. They don’t learn how to shrink their needs until asking for nothing begins to feel normal.

But standing inside Theo De Luca’s penthouse, dressed in clothes chosen for me, I feel dangerously close to becoming one.

And every fairy tale has a price.

I’m still waiting for someone to tell me mine.

I tuck my phone into my purse and turn toward the elevator.

Two people step from the hallway at the same time.

I jump so hard that pain pulses through my temple.

The woman on my right is tall and muscular, dressed entirely in black. Her blonde hair is pulled into a bun so tight that not even a single strand has dared to escape. She is fierce and beautiful, with sharp cheekbones and the expression of someone who could break a man’s arm without interrupting her conversation.

The man beside her is even larger.

Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his dark suit, and his blond-brown hair is styled in a deliberately careless way that probably requires forty minutes and three different products. He looks like one of the Hemsworth brothers if their mother had produced an extra son specifically for private security work.

They stare at me.

I stare back.

“Can I help you?”

The woman extends her hand. “Dot.”

I shake it carefully. Her grip is firm but controlled.

The man inclines his head. “Charger.”

I wait.

Neither of them elaborates.

“Those are your names?”

“They’re what you can call us,” Dot replies.

That is not ominous at all.

I glance between them. “Okay. Dot and Charger. Why are you standing outside Theo’s bedroom?”

“We’re your security detail,” Charger says.

I laugh.

Neither of them joins me.

My smile fades. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please don’t call me ma’am. I’m not eighty.”

Something that might be amusement flickers in Charger’s eyes. Dot remains impressively motionless.

“I don’t need a security detail,” I tell them.

“We were informed that you might say that,” Dot replies.

“Were you also informed that I’m a grown woman capable of going to work by myself?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Our orders remain unchanged.”

I fold my arms. “Orders?”

They exchange a glance.

“We take our orders from Theodore De Luca,” Charger explains.

Not Mr. De Luca.

Not your boss.

Theodore De Luca.

The way they say his name makes him sound less like a wealthy businessman and more like a general commanding an army.

An army filled with absurdly attractive people who have strange names.

“I am not being followed around by two armed babysitters.”

“We aren’t babysitters,” Dot says.

“Are you armed?”

Neither answers.

I close my eyes.

“Of course you are.”

“Mr. De Luca considers your safety a priority,” Charger says.

“Mr. De Luca needs to consider asking me before rearranging my entire life.”

I pull out my phone and tap Theo’s name.

My thumb hovers over the call button.

Then I imagine him answering in that calm, commanding voice. I imagine myself demanding that he remove the security detail while Dot and Charger listen. Worse, I imagine Theo refusing and me discovering that part of me likes how intensely he wants to protect me.

I lock my phone again.

“This is ridiculous.”

Neither argues.

That somehow makes it more irritating.

I point between them. “Both of you are not coming with me.”

“We were instructed—”

“One,” I interrupt. “I will accept one of you. The other can remain here, go home, sharpen knives, or do whatever extremely intimidating people do in their free time.”

Dot’s mouth twitches.

Victory.

A tiny one, but I’ll take it.

Charger looks toward her. Some silent conversation seems to pass between them before he nods.

“I’ll accompany you,” he says. “Dot will remain on call.”

“Perfect.”

It is not perfect.

Nothing about this morning is remotely normal.

But I am already late enough that Elena has probably begun planning my funeral, and arguing with Theo’s human barricades isn’t getting me any closer to the office.

Dot presses the elevator button.

As we wait, I catch her looking at the bruise near my temple. Her expression doesn’t change, but something cold enters her eyes.

For the first time, I wonder exactly what Theo told them.

The elevator doors open.

Charger steps inside first, checks the space, and gestures for me to follow.

“You know,” I say as the doors close, “most people just take an Uber.”

“Mr. De Luca arranged transportation.”

“Naturally.”

In the lobby, Liam greets me with a warm smile. His gaze briefly moves to Charger before returning to me.

“Good morning, Ms. Bennett. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am, thank you.”

“And your accommodations?”

I think about the plants, the vanity, the closet, and the drawer full of Theo’s shirts.

“They’re…thorough.”

Liam’s smile deepens as if he understands exactly what I mean.

Charger guides me through the glass doors with one hand hovering near the small of my back without touching me.

A black Lincoln Nautilus waits at the curb.

I stop.

“This is for me?”

“Yes.”

“Of course it is.”

Charger opens the rear passenger door.

I slide inside, and he closes it before moving around to the driver’s seat. The leather is soft beneath me, and the entire car smells new.

As we pull away from the building, I look back at the glass tower disappearing behind us.

Somewhere near the top is a bedroom that now contains my plants, my clothes, and enough makeup to fund a small country.

Somewhere across the city is the man responsible for it.

Theo didn’t ask me to move in.

He simply created a place for me beside him, then went to work as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I press my fingers against the folded note inside my purse.

I should be furious.

I should be afraid.

Instead, as Charger drives me toward the office, one impossible thought settles inside my chest.

For the first time in a very long time, someone has made room for me.

I only wish I knew why.