She picks her phone back up. "I have something for you. It’s... not much. I can’t exactly buy you a Patek Philippe, and even if I could, you have, like, a dozen of them."
I don’t correct her that, yes, actually, she could buy the entire Patek Philippe store if she wanted. She’ll get used to it.
She taps the screen before handing it to me. I look down and there’s a Spotify playlist open. It’s titledSunday Dinner, and I laugh at the reminder of her confession. The way we used to be starving for each other during those meals with Ryder between us.
"I made this for you," she says, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. "It’s... well, it’s songs that remind me of us. Of how you make me feel."
I scroll through the list before tapping the play button.
The opening notes of"I Wanna Be Yours"by Arctic Monkeysfill the room. The heavy, slow rhythm vibrates in the quiet space. It’s devotional. Obsessive.
I look at her.
She’s biting her lip, looking nervous for the first time today.
"I listened to it a lot," she admits, her voice quiet. "When I was trying to hate you but couldn't. When I was closing my eyes with Ryder and imagining your hands on me. The Banks song... it's exactly how I felt sitting across from you at that table."
A dark, possessive thrill curls through my blood.
She spent hours curating a soundtrack to our obsession. She sat in the dark and thought about me. She let me live in her head rent-free.
"Play track four," she whispers. "That’s the one I listen to when I touch myself."
Fuck.
I skip to the fourth track.
The filthy, distorted bassline of"Love Is a Bitch"by Two Feet kicks in. It’s slow, gritty, and sounds exactly like sex.
My dick goes rock hard, straining against my joggers.
"You like it?" she asks.
"I’m never listening to anything else," I promise. I toss the phone onto the cushion beside us, letting the music thump through the speakers. I don't care about the phone. I care about the woman who understands the darkness inside me and decided to dance with it.
"I have something for you, too," I say.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out a small, flat box.
Blair takes it. Her hands shake slightly as she lifts the lid.
Inside sits a gold bangle. It’s simple, a solid band of gold.
"It's beautiful," she says, lifting it out. "But... there's no clasp."
"No," I say. "There isn't."
I take the bracelet from her, along with a small gold screwdriver that was tucked beneath the velvet lining.
Her wedding ring is a symbol of devotion. It’s something she wears because she loves me, but it’s something she could technically take off. She could slide it from her finger in a fit of rage or leave it on the nightstand if she ever decided to walk away.
This is different.
This gold band requires a tool to remove, and I’m the only one who holds it. It’s not about marriage. It’s about the fact that she doesn't get to leave.
Blair looks at the gold band, then up at me.
She doesn't pull away. She doesn't look scared.
