To the pure, unfiltered joy.
The scene reminds me of Christmas many years ago, when MJ and I would gather around the tree. Now I understand my parents’ smiles.
“Oh my gosh!” Aurora unearths a plier-like tool with wheels instead of flat edges and wields it like a trophy. “Wheeled nippers. Do you know what I can do with these?”
I study the implement, which resembles part of a torture kit more than an art tool. “I know whatIcan do with it. How doyouuse it?”
“I can cut curves into glass and tile and ceramic.” Her fingers spin the wheels. “See? Not just straight lines or chunks. Actual curves. I can create so many more designs now.”
She sets the instrument aside reverently and dives into another box. This one contains the clothes I ordered after rifling through her apartment and closet during my reconnaissance. With a squeal, she extracts dresses, tops, skirts, and even a few pairs of pants, examining each with mounting excitement.
“Thank you! These are perfect. How did you know my size?” She holds a green sweater against her chest.
“I told you I would get to know every inch of you.” My gaze roams her body, prompting her cheeks to flush pink. “I noticed you seemed to prefer skirts and dresses.”
She blinks. “I do. But I’m surprised you…” When a bundle of multicolored fabric materializes in her hand, her entire demeanor changes. “Fuzzy socks.” Her eyes brighten with unshed tears. “How did you know I liked fuzzy socks?”
I don’t confess how I saw them scattered across her ransacked apartment floor. I refuse to admit how closely I’ve studied every aspect of her life.
For leverage, of course. Control.
My non-response doesn’t deter her. She leaps to her feet, clutching the socks to her chest like they’re precious gems. “I need to put these away.”
She disappears down the hallway toward the guest room—her room now, I suppose—still cradling the socks.
I follow, stopping in the doorway as she kneels beside an open drawer and arranges the colorful bundles into neat rows. A pink and blue pair already adorns her feet.
A warm sensation fills my chest. One I studiously ignore. “Come with me.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Where?”
“You’ll see.”
She trails me to the freight elevator at the back of the loft and joins me inside, still focused on her wiggling toes. I press the button for the ninth floor.
The elevator lurches downward, then jolts to a stop.
The space before us stretches into shadow. Ten thousand square feet of raw, unfinished floor. Support beams rise like steel trees from concrete. Along the far wall, plywood covers windows as massive as those in my loft, blocking all but thin slivers of light that cut across the dusty floor.
Confusion carves into her features. “What is this?”
I shrug, aiming for casual despite my accelerated pulse. “It’s yours.”
Her jaw gapes. “What?”
“You need to do your…smashing art, right?” I gesture at the vast emptiness. “You can do it here. In your…smashing studio.”
Without waiting for her reaction, I cross to the nearest window and grab the edge of the plywood. Nails shriek as I tearthe board free before continuing down the line, unveiling the wall of glass that faces the city.
When I glance back, she’s in the center of the floor, mouth hanging open.
Aurora wanders as if entranced, approaching one of the massive support columns and running her palm along the rough concrete. “I’ve never had anything like…never seen anything like this…no one ever gave a gift like this…”
She manages to ramble despite never finishing a sentence. I bite back a smile. I didn’t originally intend this as a gift but as a provision for an asset. A practical solution to keep her occupied and out of my hair. To prevent damage to my living space and maintain control while granting the illusion of freedom.
A way to stop her from attempting to off me with her cooking.
Nothing more.
