Chapter 12 Anonymous
ANONYMOUS
Early one morning, I woke to a DM on my Instagram account—someone with the handle @anonymous_a asking if I could design an engagement ring for his girlfriend.
He said she'd been following my work for years and loved my designs. His profile was strange: a newly created account, no posts, no personal photos—just a single profile picture of sun setting over a calm sea, no location tagged. If he was trying to hide this from his girlfriend to surprise her maybe it made sense. His only stipulation was that the ring feature a yellow diamond. When I pressed for a budget, he dodged gracefully, saying only that for the right stone, he’d make it work.
I'd have to test that claim before we got too far into negotiations.
I was uneasy about taking on a long-distance client—especially for something as personal and high-stakes as an engagement ring.
Stones, especially rare ones, needed to be seen in person, their color and fire impossible to judge through a screen.
I urged him to come to me, but he dismissed the idea outright.
Traveling to see the stone, he said, was out of the question.
As soon as we wrapped our initial back-and-forth, I called Nathan. As luck would have it the stone was still available. I asked for the price—yikes. This guy had better be head-over-heels, or wildly irresponsible. Possibly both. At least I'd landed squarely in the ballpark with my initial quote.
I forwarded the buyer the magnified stills, a video of the stone catching the light, and a copy of the GIA certificate.
The only way I could justify moving forward was with a non-refundable deposit equal to my wholesale cost from Nathan.
That way, if he bailed, at least I wouldn't be left holding a five-carat, fancy vivid yellow heartbreak of a bill.
He didn't hesitate. No haggling, no second thoughts—just a short reply: Send me wiring instructions.
I stared at the message for a long moment, waiting for the catch. None came.
The next morning, over coffee, I mentioned to Baird that I might have found a buyer for the diamond we'd seen in Nathan's shop.
He gave me one of his patented skeptical brows as he lifted his mug—black coffee, no sugar, no cream.
The only concession to breakfast this vampire ever made, and I suspected it had less to do with liking coffee than with the fact that I drank it too.
“What?” I asked, guessing at what he was thinking. “I promise I'm not buying it for myself. Tempting as that would be.”
His eyes flicked to me. “It would.”
I just rolled my eyes and continued. “Some guy wants me to design an engagement ring for his girlfriend. And he gave me free rein to design it. His only requirement was a yellow diamond.”
“Oddly specific,” Baird said.
“Right?” I said. “Not 'something classic' or 'she likes ovals.' Just—yellow.”
Baird hummed low in his throat. “He kens exactly what he wants.” He leaned back against the counter, all lazy confidence. “Think ye've time to finish the ruby—and this new ring? Or am I distractin' ye a wee bit too much?”
“You're always a distraction,” I admitted.
But despite his masterful attempt at seduction, I winced at the mention of the ruby.
The wax model sat half-finished on my bench—a design I'd been carving from a solid block, destined to be encased in plaster investment before molten gold filled its every curve.
I'd been slow-pedaling the ruby ring on purpose.
If I was honest, the idea of creating a ring that might anchor a chain of events revealing the past to some reincarnated soul terrified me.
What if the sentient ruby didn't approve of my design?
I couldn't shake the feeling that a stone like this might not just disapprove quietly, but rearrange fate entirely.
Or what if the person it was meant for rejected it?
Ugh—I had to untangle myself from the whirl of thoughts.
“It's coming along. I might even carve the engagement ring next—maybe do part of it now, so I can cast them together,” I said brightly, forcing a cheer I didn't quite feel.
I tried to equalize the making of an engagement ring to crafting the ruby's setting.
But deep down, I knew better. One was important to only two people, and in the end it was simply jewelry.
The other…the other might meddle with the cosmos.
No pressure.
The next morning, I woke to a notification from my bank.
The incoming wire—in the amount we'd agreed upon—came from Thorndale Ventures Ltd.
, a nameless, faceless corporate entity registered on the island of Jersey, a notorious tax haven.
The funds had originated from a bank in Basel, Switzerland—another refuge where the discreetly wealthy hid assets and identities.
My curiosity piqued, I tried to peel back the layers, but every path dead-ended.
Whoever he was, he clearly didn't want to be found.
The only detail I uncovered was that Thorndale Ventures had been formed in the late 1800s. Old money, then. Very old.
But his days of anonymity had to end, because I needed him to sign something.
I DM'd him to confirm I'd received the funds and asked for his full name and email address so I could send over the contract.
He replied almost instantly: Aaron Thorndale and a company email.
Maybe the 'a' in anonymous_a stood for Aaron.
I sent my standard agreement—non-refundable deposit clause, binding arbitration in the event of a claim, with me selecting the arbiter, a payment schedule for the balance due.
I half-expected him to stall, to pass it to an attorney, maybe even try to redline a few terms. He did none of that.
By lunchtime, the signed contract was in my inbox, Aaron Thorndale's electronic signature affixed without a single change.
Now that I had a name, I thought finding a face for my mysterious customer—and his girlfriend—would be easy.
I figured I could trace her back to him on social media, maybe get a feel for her style.
His glowing “she loves your designs” was flattering, but also a little unnerving.
I create a lot of designs, and without knowing her, I was shooting in the dark.
If I could see what she wore every day, I might be able to narrow in on a direction for the ring—something that would feel like her.
Even with his name, I wasn't any closer.
I turned up a handful of Aaron Thorndales, but none fit—wrong age, wrong geography.
Thorndale Ventures Ltd. might have been formed on Jersey and funneled funds through a Swiss bank, but the listed address was in London.
That made the Texas cattle rancher and the California doctor I found along the way unlikely contenders for the Aaron Thorndale buying the ring.
I tried—really tried—to get some style direction from Aaron. After a few rounds of messages, he gave me the least helpful answer imaginable: “Design exactly what you’d design for yourself.”
“Well,” I murmured to no one, “that's either incredibly romantic…or an excellent way to blame the jeweler.” Either way, I'd just have to trust my own taste…and hope his girlfriend shared it.