Chapter 4
Luna
“You look stunning.” A wedding guest squeezes my arm.
“Radiant,” Mira’s mother agrees, pressing a cold hand to my cheek. “Doesn’t she look radiant, Derek?”
“She always does,” Derek says from approximately two inches behind me, his hand landing on the small of my back. I step forward just enough to dislodge it, disguising the move as a lean toward the white orchids at the head of the long table. “Can’t keep my eyes off her.”
Indeed he can’t. But I suspect it’s less romance and more stage management, a director watching his lead actress for any sign she’s about to go off-script.
Which, to be fair, I’ve almost done. Twice.
Once when he leaned in to kiss me in front of his aunt Theresa and I flinched so hard I had to disguise it as a sneeze.
Aunt Theresa blessed me three times. And again ten minutes later, when he grabbed my ass at the chocolate fountain while I was zoned out, having a full-body flashback to last night.
When I yelped, Derek told the groom’s parents I’d seen a wasp.
Despite how tempted I was to slap him back to the year nineteen ninety, I held it together. Because today is not about me. Today is Mira and James’ day. Besides, after this weekend, Derek and I will never see each other again.
“I got you the Sauvignon blanc, by the way.” Derek holds a glass in front of me. “You don’t want the red. Red gives you headaches.”
“Red doesn’t give me headaches.” I reach around him to grab a glass of Cabernet from a passing tuxedoed waiter’s tray.
“It gave you a headache at the Pasternak dinner.” Derek frowns, his fingers tightening on the sauvignon blanc glass.
“That wasn’t the wine, Derek.” I offer him a wide, sugar-sweet smile. “That was your mother’s two-hour commentary on my career prospects.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, something I know means: I’m tolerating this because we’re in public. Well, too bad for him he can’t control like this anymore.
“You two are just the cutest.” An older omega in seafoam chiffon I’ve never seen before in my life materializes at my elbow. “Derek talks about you constantly.”
“He’s a talker,” I say.
“She’s being modest.” Derek’s hand returns to my back and my wine goes down the wrong pipe. I cough into my fist, eyes watering, and take another sip to smooth it over. “I talk about her because she’s worth talking about.”
The seafoam woman beams at both of us like we just announced a pregnancy.
Breathe, don’t cause a scene. You foolishly agreed to let him tell his family the truth after the wedding weekend. Come on, you can do this.
Well, as long as he stops touching me, trying to kiss me, or materializing between me and any man under sixty like a human privacy screen. ‘Cause yeah, those things are wearing through my patience.
“You look pale, sweetheart.” Celeste, Derek’s mother, appears at my side. She eyes me up and down the way only a supposed mother-in-law can. “Are you sleeping enough? You’ve got those circles again. You’re not doing one of those cleanses, are you?”
“I’m fine, Celeste.” I manage a small smile. “It’s just been a long morning.”
“She had a big breakfast,” Derek offers from behind me.
I didn’t have a big breakfast. But between the melatonin truffles and the ghost of last night’s alpha, my brain is stuck in biological counter-shock. And to be fair, waking up in a panic and rushing to squeeze into a silk sheath dress isn’t what I’d call energizing.
I check my phone and sigh. The rehearsal lunch hasn’t even started and I’m already scraping the bottom of my smile reserves. And I’ve still got a full wedding to survive the next day.
A couple of hours for the lunch, I tell myself. Then I can escape to my own room, lock the door, and spend the night in peace before the ceremony tomorrow. Just make it to the day-after brunch on Sunday, and the contract will be complete.
“Can I have everyone’s attention?”
Derek has stepped away into the open space, where guests are still milling around, glass in hand, searching for their place cards. He taps a fork against his wine glass.
“I know we’re just getting settled, and Mira’s ceremony is tomorrow, but I just wanted to add a little to the joy of this weekend before we sit down.
I need a quick moment.” He turns, extending a hand toward me.
“Because I can’t let this weekend pass without celebrating the most incredible woman in my life. ”
I stare at him. My expression says, very clearly, What the hell are you doing? He reads it, doesn’t care. His smile doesn’t even flicker.
“Some of you know Luna. Some of you are just meeting her this weekend. But you need to know—this is the best person I’ve ever met. She gives and gives and just makes me a better man.”
People are turning. Smiling. Celeste has her hand on her chest.
“And I think it’s time I gave her something back.”
My blood goes cold.
“Luna, I’ve been looking at apartments.” He pauses, probably for effect. “For us. A place that’s ours. And I think after this weekend, it’s time we stop playing it safe and go all in. A home, a life, the whole thing.”
The room responds the way he knew it would—murmurs, soft gasps, scattered applause, Celeste with tears already rolling. A beta I’ve never met touches my arm and whispers, “You are so lucky.”
But I am not smiling.
I agreed to hold his hand and be pleasant for the weekend. I did not agree to let him pitch a fictional apartment to a room full of relatives.
“That’s—really sweet, Derek, but actually—”
“She’s overwhelmed,” Derek says, walking back to me and clamping his fingers down on my shoulder, a hard, warning squeeze as he steers the moment back to the room. “She always gets like this when I surprise her. But I promise not to steal any more of the spotlight from the bride today.”
A few people chuckle, and Mira waves him off with a good-natured smile from the head table.
“Great timing, looks like the food is ready,” Derek adds, raising his glass. “To Mira and James!”
Applause ripples. The attention drifts, guests pulling out chairs as the first course arrives. I’m left standing with his fingers digging into my collarbone, a plastic smile pasted on my face. The only thing keeping it there is Mira looking our way.
He knows this. He’s counting on it.
I head to our table and sit down. Derek leans in close, his voice just for me.
“By the way, my family was asking questions,” Derek murmurs, buttering a roll for me. “Why we weren’t sharing a room, why you seemed distant. So I took care of it.”
“What does that mean?” I drop my cloth napkin, my hand balling into a fist beside it.
“I talked to the front desk this morning. Moved your things under my reservation. One room, king bed. It just makes more sense, Luna. And it’s only two nights.”
Cold dread locks behind my ribs.
“You canceled my room.” I push my chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood.
“I consolidated our rooms.” He picks up his fork. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Get my room back, Derek.” I lean in, refusing to break eye contact.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Get it back.”
“Don’t be hysterical, Luna. You’re going to cause a scene.” He reaches over to pat my hand.
“I don’t have a room tonight. You made that choice.” I yank my hand away.
“People are looking.”
“Let them look,” I say, planting my palms on the tablecloth.
He reaches for my wrist. I pull it away and close my eyes for half a second.
I’m sorry, Mira.
I stand up.
“Luna—”
“No,” I say, frowning.
“Babe. Sit down.” His eyes are darting. Calibrating. “People are—”
“People are what, Derek? Watching? Good. You wanted an audience two minutes ago. You’ve got one.”
Conversations die, and the room goes quiet as my voice cuts through the noise.
“Derek and I broke up,” I say to the room. “I ended it months ago. I agreed to come this weekend and pretend because I’d promised Mira I’d come months ago and so Derek could announce it himself later. That was the deal. Smile, be polite, one weekend.”
The silence has weight.
“But telling you is clearly not his plan anymore,” I say, looking at Celeste. “Because he just invented a future we’re not having. He even told me he canceled my hotel room so I’d have nowhere to go tonight except his bed.”
Celeste’s hand goes from her chest to her mouth.
“Luna,” Derek says, using his controlled, reasonable voice. “You’re making a scene.”
“You made the scene, Derek,” I point at him. “With a fork and a wine glass. You don’t get to decide where I sleep. I agreed to one weekend of pretending and you tried to use it against me. So I’m done. We are over. We have been over. And now everyone here knows it.”
I grab my clutch and phone as everyone watches me, Mira included. My chest aches—she doesn’t deserve this, not today, not ever.
“Mira, I’m sorry,” I say, giving her an apologetic nod. “This isn’t about you. Your wedding is going to be beautiful.”
I turn and walk toward the exit, chin up. I make it six strides before a heel catches a chair leg and I stumble, grabbing the back of a seat. A graceless recovery. The wedding photographer swings my way, the flash catching me deer-in-headlights.
I right myself and keep moving, shoving through the heavy venue doors into bright afternoon sun, running down the steps.
Halfway down to the parking lot, the realization hits. My stuff. The bag with my makeup, toiletries, and yesterday’s clothes. They’re still in my room, though maybe they got moved to Derek’s room? My stomach lurches as I think about walking in there.
But then again, luckily, my actual suitcase is in my trunk. The plan was to leave for my real holiday ASAP after the wedding. That’ll do, because I’m not risking running back into him.
Goodbye, straightener. Goodbye, high-end concealer and stuff. I hope housekeeping appreciates it.
Behind me, Derek appears at the top of the stairs, jaw tight, face flushed.
“Someone stop her!” he calls out like I’m a pickpocket.
But I’m already racing down the path to my car. The second I reach it, I fling the door open, kick my heels onto the passenger floor, and twist the key in the ignition.
***
I’m doing sixty on a two-lane road, my phone mounted to the dash, when a notification drops down from the top of the screen.
Reservation Canceled.
My heart skips. I pull over in a diner parking lot and tap the banner, bringing up the email from the cabin rental agency I’d booked for the days before my next holiday destination, a luxury yoga retreat.
I immediately call them, only to get trapped in a cold, pre-recorded nightmare.
stabbing my way through the automated menus.
“Thank you. This reservation has been canceled by the primary account holder. Due to high seasonal demand, canceled properties are automatically reassigned to our priority waitlist.”
What?
“If you would like to join the waitlist for a future date, press one. To return to the main menu, press two. Goodbye.”
A digital dial tone cuts through the air. No option for a operator. No way to explain.
“Fuck!” I yell, slamming the end-call button.
Derek is behind this, I’d stake my life on it.
It’s an expensive lesson in never forwarding reservation codes to anyone ever again.
Although, in my defense, I did that back in May, back when I didn’t know he was a psycho.
Anyway, now, I have two days with nowhere to sleep, and home is a brutal eight hours away.
I grip the steering wheel and take a long, steadying breath. Okay, that happened. Now let’s find a solution.
I open my booking app, filtering for anything within twenty miles.
Three options pop up. The first is the resort I just fled.
The second is a luxury hotel charging a casual four hundred and twelve dollars a night.
The third has zero photos and a dismal 2.
3-star rating. I tap it anyway. The top review is from a guy named Gary.
Gary has awarded one star, and Gary would like the world to know that there was a raccoon in his bathroom.
Ew, nope.
I widen the search radius to sixty miles and spend the next hour and a half calling every hotel, motel, and bed-and-breakfast on the screen, only to get variations of “Sorry, we’re completely full.
” By the time I finally give up, the sun is slipping behind the pine ridges, casting long, bruised shadows across the diner parking lot.
And that’s when I dial the one number I know will always pick up.
“Luna? Honey, is that you?” Her voice is warm, steady. “How is the wedding going?”
The dam breaks. The scene I made, Derek’s cancellations—I pour it all out.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “Well, you did the right thing.”
Something in my chest loosens. A fraction.
“But I have nowhere to go,” I say. “Everything is booked. The retreat doesn’t start until Tuesday, and Lakeview is eight hours away. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“Wait. Where are you right now?”
“Somewhere past Millford. On a county road heading west.”
She goes quiet. “Luna, I might know a place.”
“Where?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Apple Blossom Orchard. It’s right off that road.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “It didn’t show up on my app.”
“I’m not surprised, I remember this place being pretty discrete,” she says.
“The Millers run it. Margaret and Tom. It’s not their main activity, but they had small cabins back in the day.
I stayed there in eighty-two. Maybe eighty-three.
” Her voice softens in a way I rarely hear.
“It was the most peaceful place I’ve ever been...
Margaret used to say the trees were older than anyone’s problems.”
I stare at the dashboard. If they aren’t on any apps, they might not be booked solid. “Do you think they still rent cabins?”
“I don’t know, it’s been decades. But look it up. Apple Blossom Orchard. If it’s still running, it’s maybe forty minutes from where you are.”
I open my browser and search. The website is a static page: a photo of a barn, apple trees, and a row of small wooden cabins. No booking system. No availability calendar. No phone number.
“I found it,” I say. “But there’s only an address.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” she says. “Their whole life is apples. The cabins were always more of an afterthought.”
“I can’t just show up, Mom.”
“Luna,” she says. “Back when I showed up there, it was ten at night and I had a flat tire. Margaret handed me a key and a jar of apple butter. If the place is still standing, drive there.”
I stare through the windshield at the darkening road. “Okay.”
“And Luna? I want to say it again, I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks Mom,” I say, my throat tightening up. “I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
The call drops with a soft beep. I bring the phone down from my ear, staring at the screen for a beat before entering the orchard’s address into the the GPS.
Forty-three minutes.