“Martine,” she breathes. “This place is…”
I step aside. “Hey, Dale, come in.”
Dale walks into the foyer like she’s stepped onto a film set. She cranes her neck to take it all in: arched ceilings, the chandelier throwing golden light across the marble floors, the tapestries, the ancestral oil portraits watching us from the walls.
“It’s like something out of a classic Bond film,” she murmurs.
I lead her into the drawing room, her heels striking the parquet in a sharp rhythm behind me. She doesn’t sit right away. She’s still looking at everything, at the velvet drapes, the flicker of the fire, the sense of hush that clings to the room like dust in a museum. But her eyes land quickly on the tray. Tea has already been laid out for two by the footmen.
The silver service gleams on the low marble table, thin porcelain cups with delicate green trim, a matching pot, and lemon slices resting on a small crystal dish. Cubes of sugar are stacked like tiny blocks beside silver tongs, and a fine porcelain plate holds a neat arrangement of sugar almonds, candied ginger, and rose-petal shortbread.
“So,” she says carefully, her tone shifting. “You said you needed to talk. That it was…important.”
My left hand moves without thinking, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and that’s when she sees it.
The emerald.
Her breath catches. “Wait.”
I glance down at my hand, at the delicate silver band and the deep green stone it holds. The ring glows against my skin, impossibly vivid in the light.
“You sounded strange on the phone,” she says slowly, as she sits. “Now I know why.”
I lower myself into the opposite chair, my brown linen trousers folding softly at the knee. My blouse is made of ivory silk, slightly sheer, with a long ribbon tie at the collar, in a French style. My hair is pulled back into a low knot. I’m not wearing much makeup, just a rosewood stain on my lips.
She’s dressed just as precisely. A navy cashmere sweater tucked into a beige A-line skirt, low Chanel slingbacks in soft patent. Not flashy. Just expensive.
Dale’s eyes flick over me, then stop at my left hand.
Her breath catches. “Okay, we need to talk about the ring…”
I follow her gaze. The emerald sits in a halo of gold, worn on my ring finger without apology.
“This is new,” she says softly. “I’ve never seen you wear that.”
“It was Hayden’s mother’s,” I say.
She leans forward. “Haydengave you hismother’sring?”
I nod.
Her brow furrows.
She blinks at me for a beat, and then her expression shifts, the realization hitting all at once.
“Oh myGod,” she breathes. “Martine, you’re married.”
I laugh, surprised by the sound of it. “I guess so.”
She’s already halfway leaning across the table, hands flying up. “No, no, don’t even, he gave you hismother’s ring. That’s not a fling, that’s not a flirt. That’s the kind of thing men do in novels where people die dramatically in the third act. Is a body going to show up soon?”
I smirk. “Are you quotingRebecca?”
She looks wide-eyed. “I’m quotingeveryhaunted, high-Society romance where the man is brooding and mysterious, and the woman wears long nightgowns and probably walks into danger with a candle.”
“Well, I do have a few silk nightgowns,” I admit, laughing. It feels good to sit here and be a girl for a stolen moment.
She gasps, as if I've proven her point. “See?!You’re not just dating him. You’ve been, what’s the word,claimed.”
