Tristan
The moment Beckett and Dominic leave the two of us alone, Chloe turns on her heel and approaches the door to the jewelry store, as if she can’t wait to be out of my presence. I glance up at the sign above the door, scowling.
This one is a corporate chain—Everly Jewelers. There’s one in every fucking mall in the country, and they run ad spots across some of our networks. I’m absolutely not about to buy my future wife a discount ring.
I reach out to grab her by the shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. She throws me a curious, indignant look.
“Not there,” I explain. “We’re going somewhere else.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Why? This is as good as anywhere. We’re just looking for a flashy rock.”
“No, it isn’t,” I say shortly. “Come on.”
She looks as though she’s about to argue, but instead grits her teeth and falls in step beside me.
For the entire walk over to the boutique, her expression is stiff, frozen. She doesn’t smile. Somewhat mournfully, I wonder if she plans to keep that stoic, businesslike face for our entire marriage.
When we reach the boutique, Chloe stops in her tracks, her brow furrowing. She looks up at the store’s gold-lettered sign, which reads D’Angelo Fine Jewelry.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I’m serious,” I say. “I thought we’d already had this conversation.”
“Tristan, I know this place. D’Angelo is one of the most expensive jewelers in LA. We can just go back to the outlet and get a regular ring. There’s no need for—”
“I already told you,” I interrupt. “I’m not going to half-ass this. If I was getting married, I would take my fiancée here for a ring, because it’s the best, and I will only accept the best.”
She’s staring at me in disbelief, other emotions flashing in her dark gray eyes like shadows moving beneath ice. The depth of her eyes, as always, is remarkable.
“And seeing as I am getting married,” I continue with a shrug, “I’m going to take my fiancée here to get a ring.”
I’m expecting her to protest, to dig her heels in, but she doesn’t. Instead, she allows me to place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the door.
D’Angelo’s place is small but well laid out, exuding an air of refined luxury.
Soft, recessed lighting casts a warm glow over the carefully arranged displays, each piece of jewelry gleaming under its own spotlight.
The gemstones are nestled into black velvet cushions, glinting as we step further inside.
The owner emerges from the back of the shop almost the moment we cross the threshold. When he speaks, his voice carries a slight Italian accent.
“Mr. Thorne. Welcome.” He inclines his head to Chloe. “And madam. Please, take your time. I’m at your disposal whenever you’re ready.”
I nod in acknowledgement, and he steps back, giving us space to look but staying within easy reach.
I steer Chloe toward a display of platinum rings, each inlaid with a perfectly-cut blue gem.
“See anything you like?” I prompt.
Her mouth twists as her gaze sweeps over them, and she shakes her head.
“Not yet.”
I can’t tell if she dislikes the options being presented, or if this is more about what the ring represents. Not for the first time today, frustration moves through me—not at Chloe, but at my parents, for springing this on us without warning.
I catch D’Angelo’s eye, and he quickly comes back over.
“We need a little help,” I tell him.
“Ah, of course. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Actually, we’d like to order a custom ring.”
“Custom? No problem at all.” He produces a small notepad from his pocket and clicks a pen, looking at me expectantly. “Can I get a description?”
I lay a hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “I’ll let my fiancée tell you what she wants.”
She glances at me in surprise, then goes quiet, actually considering it. “Something minimal, but well-crafted,” she says after a beat. “White gold, I think. Nothing too chunky or distracting.”
“And for the gem?” he asks.
“Colorless diamond,” she replies, “with gray spinel. Round cut.”
D’Angelo smiles, nodding. He seems impressed. “Very classic taste, madam, yet still unique.”
Classic, yet unique. I’m a little surprised by her choice. I was expecting an over-the-top piece, almost farcical. The kind of ring someone would order as a joke, since this whole marriage is just that to her.
Instead, she described something simple but elegant. Something that I might have ordered for my future wife if I had been choosing a ring. Her taste matches mine better than I’d thought.
“Good choice of stones,” I tell her without thinking. “The spinel will match your eyes exactly.”
She blinks, glancing at me in surprise. “What?”
“Gray spinel.” I shrug one shoulder. “It isn’t light like diamonds or other colorless gems. It has depth to it. A darker color, like your eyes.”
I gaze into her irises as I speak, plunging myself back into that hue. Her jaw drops open a little, and those gray eyes go a bit wider as she stares up at me.
“And, what? You have that color memorized or something?” Her tone is half teasing, half challenging.
“Like clouds before a storm,” I murmur. “Like smoke from a fire.”
Her breath catches, and she seems momentarily at a loss for words. So am I, to be honest. I didn’t exactly mean to say that, to reveal just how much time I’ve spent trying to identify the exact shade of her eyes.
She opens and closes her mouth twice, her lips twitching as if she’s about to speak but keeps stopping herself. Her tongue darts out to wet her lip as she tilts her head up, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t seem intentional, or even conscious…
Then she quickly steps back, her expression shifting as if she’s been jolted awake from some daydream. She turns to the jeweler, offering him a strained smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
D’Angelo returns her smile, but when she looks away, he shoots me a subtle wink. I respond with a thin-lipped grimace. Whatever that was a second ago, it felt… intimate, charged with unspoken thoughts and emotions, but it’s gone now, replaced by the sterile formality of the situation.
“This is to be a wedding band, yes?” he asks. “Would you like me to create a matching one for you, sir?”
I consider for a moment. “Well, the one my fiancée picked sounded beautiful. I think I’ll let her choose mine too.”
She makes a small, startled noise, shooting me a sideways glance. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I almost expect her to argue, since I’m pretty sure that’s her kneejerk reaction to just about anything I say after the years of rivalry between us. But her gaze turns serious as she leans back over the display, surveying the men’s wedding bands on the left side of the case.
After a few moments of thought, she points a manicured finger at one of the velvet cushions. “This one.”
The jeweler unlocks the case and slides out the ring, holding it up for our inspection. It’s white gold, like her own custom ring, and has a narrow sliver of black obsidian through the center of it, giving it a darker appearance. It will match hers well.
“Would it be possible to customize this a bit?” she asks, and the jeweler nods graciously.
The two of them begin to discuss the ring, and I wander over to the other side of the shop to let them work everything out.
There’s something else I need from here, anyway.
I might as well use this time to search for it.
It doesn’t take long to find—it’s probably the most commonly sold item this boutique carries. There’s a display case filled with sparkling diamond rings with thin, delicate bands. They’re classic engagement rings, refined and beautiful, all the more so for having been crafted by D’Angelo.
After a few minutes, Chloe returns to my side, and the jeweler approaches from behind the counter. “I should have both rings ready for you within a few weeks’ time. Will that be all?”
“Actually,” I say, “there’s one more thing. No alterations will be necessary.” I gesture to the case of diamond rings. “The fourteen karat one here. The square-cut.”
“Excellent choice, sir.” D’Angelo’s eyes gleam with approval as he opens the display case.
Chloe glances sideways at me, her lips pursed. I can feel the suspicion in her stare. She doesn’t trust me. She thinks everything I’m doing is part of some elaborate game, or a joke at her expense. I need to fix that. To set the record straight.
“What’s that about?” she asks.
“You’re my fiancée,” I remind her. “Can’t have you going out without an engagement ring.”
D’Angelo hands me a small, velvet-lined box with the ring nestled inside. I pop the lid open as soon as he passes it over the glass counter, inspecting the diamond before reaching for Chloe’s hand.
She offers me her ring finger without protest, watching silently as I slide the band over her polished nail. As it slips into place, her hand trembles a little. I give her fingers a slight squeeze, reassuring her. As I let go of her hand, I wonder if she was as aware of that exchange as I was.
She holds out her hand, letting the gemstone catch the light. I try to gauge from her expression whether she approves of my choice, but as always, it’s impossible to read her.
For some reason, though, I like seeing the ring on her finger. It feels right.
I told her that I was going to do this correctly, and I meant it. That must be it—this is a sign of my commitment to her. I hope she sees it the same way.
I pay D’Angelo for the three rings and the alterations, and the two of us step back out into the sun.
“Let me drive you home,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “My own driver brought me here, thanks. He can take me home.”
“Come on, I insist.”
My driver pulls up the car, a dark-windowed Audi A8, and I open one of the back doors before Chloe can protest, gesturing for her to climb inside.
She does so, moving to the far seat so that I can sit next to her. My driver starts the car, and we pull away from the curb.