3. The Ring
Samantha
The following Friday, Alexander picks me up outside the Fine Arts School and takes me to Place Vend?me.
I spot him the moment I step outside, leaning against the chauffeured car, absorbed in his phone.
Six feet tall, light brown hair, an athlete’s build, and sharply sculpted features that would have delighted ancient Greek sculptors.
And me, too. The late-afternoon sun glints off his watch—a Patek Philippe, a gift from his investors after his first round of funding.
When he finally looks up and smiles at me, my heart skips a beat.
All my classmates watch me with envy as I walk toward the car. Aurélie, one of them, gives me a pointed look and silently mouths, “Who is that?” I simply shrug, as if all this were perfectly ordinary. As if my heart weren’t pounding violently in my chest.
When I reach him, he slips his phone away and kisses me warmly on both cheeks. His woody scent fills my lungs, leaving me wanting more. Then he opens the door and invites me into the car.
I smile at the driver and greet him.
“Good afternoon, Gilles. How are you?”
“Very well, Miss Samantha. Nice to see you again.”
We exchange a few words about his wife and his two children as he drives us toward our destination.
“Are you ready?” Alexander asks me.
No. I will never be ready for this.
“Yes,” I lie, with what I hope is a convincing smile.
Place Vend?me stretches out before us, majestic and intimidating. The classical facades, the column at the center, the glittering display windows of the world’s greatest jewelers. Cartier. Van Cleef & Arpels. Chaumet. Temples devoted to eternal love and infinite promises.
The sales associates in the boutique we enter are visibly taken aback by my worn jeans, battered parka, and Converse sneakers.
I see their eyes slide over me, assessing, measuring.
Still, they welcome us with polite smiles.
It must be said that my companion radiates success.
His bearing, his confident posture, his exorbitant watch, his tailored suit, his cashmere coat.
Alexander is the very image of the young CEO who has made it.
“Mr. Delaunay,” the store manager greets him, stepping forward. “It’s an honor to welcome you.”
Delaunay. I’d forgotten how many doors that name opens. Alexander’s family belongs to old Parisian bourgeoisie—the kind that doesn’t talk about money because it’s always had it.
He quickly explains what he’s looking for, and soon we’re seated in comfortable garnet velvet armchairs, hot coffee served in Limoges porcelain set on the low table between us, while the sales associates present different rings on black velvet trays.
Each one is more dazzling than the last. Diamonds that capture the light and scatter it in a thousand sparks. Platinum settings of extraordinary delicacy. Stones that probably cost more than everything I’ll earn in my lifetime.
I do my best not to think about what we’re doing and try to be honest about which choice would most please my sister.
“This one, perhaps?” the salesman suggests, pointing to a solitaire of remarkable purity.
I study it closely. It’s beautiful, clean, elegant. Exactly the kind of ring I would choose for myself.
“No,” I reply softly. “Something more sophisticated, if possible.”
The salesman nods, understanding immediately.
“I have exactly what you need.”
He returns with a different box. When he opens it, I know I was right.
A three-carat diamond surrounded by smaller stones arranged in a halo. Spectacular. Perfect for her.
“Oh,” Alexander breathes. “That’s… impressive.”
“This one will be perfect,” I murmur.
Our eyes meet. There’s something in his—hesitation, perhaps disappointment. Then the moment passes.
Alexander approves my choice and quickly pays. I look away when the payment terminal displays €42,000, and then we leave the store.
Once outside, I take a deep breath, as if I’d been holding it the entire time.
It’s done. The ring is bought. I’ve just chosen the weapon that will pierce my heart.
In a few days—weeks at most—Alexander will kneel in front of my sister and ask her to marry him.
And I’ll be there, pretending to rejoice for the happy couple while my heart lies irreparably shattered.
I assume he’ll drop me off at home, as he usually does, but no. The driver stops in front of an art supply store: Rougier & Plé, paradise for any Parisian artist.
I look at Alexander in surprise, but he merely smiles, steps out, and opens my door.
“Come on,” he says. “Hurry before the store closes.”
I freeze, not understanding.
“Alexander… what are we doing here?”
“Go inside. You’ll see.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I follow him into my dream world. The familiar scent of paper, pigments, and turpentine wraps around me instantly. It feels like coming home.
“To thank you for your help,” he says, “I’m buying you anything you want.”
The surprise leaves me speechless. Does he realize he’s just offered me the greatest fantasy of any artist? An unlimited budget for art supplies.
“Alexander, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. And you will.”
There’s something firm in his voice, almost fierce. As if he needs me to accept.
“I’m going to ruin you,” I threaten.
“Sam, I just spent forty-two thousand euros on a ring. I think I’ll survive a few tubes of paint.”
A few tubes of paint. If only he knew.
“All right,” I say.
His face lights up.
“Perfect. Then show me what makes you come alive.”