“Jewelry store,” he answers, pulling into a space. “It won’t take long. I called ahead.”
My brow furrows, as I tease out all the information he’s just dropped. Am I more surprised that a jewelry store is on the agenda or that he’s concerned about it being quick? “Called ahead for what?”
He looks over at me, one brow quirking up. “Your wedding ring.”
Right. We got married yesterday and I don’t have one. But also, the fact that we’re going for brevity is the reminder that this is not a real marriage. Brides don’t pick out their engagement rings they plan to wear for life on budgeted time. “I don’t…”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a Smith now.”
“A Smith?” That one rocks me. Because just when I’m reminded this is fake, something very real hits me.
Sasha Smith. I test the name in my head and then whisper it out loud. I can’t deny, it has a certain appeal, the way it sounds. Feels on my tongue.
“You’re married to a man who drips his woman in jewelry. It’s expected.” He turns off the car and looks over at me.
I give a quick jerk of my chin, but the words don’t actually make me feel great.
I’m sure most girls would stop thinking at the word “dripped…”
But I am caught on the word “expected.” The kiss. The chivalry. The shopping. They are allexpectedand I need to remember that. “We don’t need a ring. I can just—” The marriage is fake. I need to keep the feelings from being real. But a day in and it’s already growing difficult.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We need more than just a ring,” he answers as he pops open his door.
My lips part as I reach for his arm, stopping him from getting out. “What else would I need?”
He frowns at me, his eyes travelling up and down my frame. “Diamond stud earrings for everyday wear, fun necklaces thathave some funky flare because they’d suit you, sedate ones for benefits, tennis bracelet for the same. Do you fancy a set of bracelets? Like bangles? I feel like you’re the sort of woman who should ring like a bell when she walks.”
“Ring like a bell?” If the quick stop to the jewelry store had made me feel like a ready-made bride, the details he’s tossing out make me feel…seen.
I do like funky necklaces and bangles and other types of jewelry that are tactile instead of just pretty.
But he’s not done. “A whole set of matching gold bracelets might be a nice thing to play with when you’re nervous. Instead of just tapping.”
“Like a fidget,” I say softly, my eyes filling with tears again. But these aren’t sad. I’ve been waiting for someone to see what I need and actually care about giving it to me for so long, I don’t even know what to say.
“That’s a good word for it. Not that I care if you tap. But it would be nice for you to have more options. Something you can fidget with that will distract you without drawing attention—why are you crying?”
“I’m sorry,” I swipe at my eyes, willing the tears to stop. “I’ve always been terrible at controlling my feelings. It’s just, no one has offered to buy me fidgets. I…” I had a necklace with spinning parts. My father took it away to punish me when I was thirteen and never gave it back.
Instead of answering, he gets out of the car and comes around to my side. Opening the door, he offers me his hand. “Come on, Princess. Let’s drip you in jewels.”
I will not repeat his words again, but I want to. Instead, I flip my hair over my shoulder as I lace my fingers through his and let him pull me into the store.
An hour later, I leave with a bag filled with boxes, the value too staggering for me to even consider.
I might be able to escape with the value of what I have just in this bag. It’s a stunning amount.
But leaving has never been a dimmer desire than it is right now, as Ryker takes the bag from my hand, pulls out a box, and slips a diamond ring on my left ring finger.
I never saw a price tag, but I know it’s large and it sparkles on my finger.
“Tonight, we’ve got a monthly family dinner. My family won’t mind if we skip, we did marry yesterday,” he says to me as he gets in the car. “But it might be nice if we go. Triston and Killian’s wives are both lovely women, they’ll be very nice to you, I promise, and I think you’d enjoy having a few friends.”
“I would,” I answer, watching my hand sparkle in the sunlight as another wave of emotion washes over me. Clothes, jewelry, and now friends?
For me, this is the closest I’ve ever come to someone actually caring about things that I might like, that make me feel seen and supported.
I try to repeat the word again…expected. He’s treating me the way he’s expected to treat me. It’s not that he wants to make me feel this way.
