The Moon That Walked Away

Prologue

I loved Logan for three years. I did his laundry, cooked his meals, stayed up all night drawing architectural sketches for him, and put everything about him before myself.

Until the day I found a sketchbook in his study—one he had treasured for seven years.

Inside were dozens of drawings, every single one of the same woman.

On the final page, written in his own hand: *My love.*

I finally understood why, in three years together, he had never once agreed to draw me.