I stare down at Moon, who kneels before me holding that small box, and the world seems to stop.
The penthouse is silent around us. The city glitters beyond the glass wall, thousands of lights scattered across the darkness like distant stars, indifferent to the drama unfolding in this room.
The harsh overhead lights I turned on still blaze above us, unforgiving and bright, leaving nowhere to hide.
Moon kneels on the floor, one knee pressed to the cold marble, the other bent, his posture almost reverent.
It's so wrong—so fundamentally not him—that I can't process it. Moon Arden, who commands rooms with his presence, who leans against cars with casual arrogance, who locks doors and cages me against walls—kneeling.
For me.
He opens the box slowly, deliberately, as if this moment has been rehearsed a thousand times in his mind.
The lid lifts, and inside rests a ring.
