“Very well,” he says calmly. “Please entertain our guest. I’ll return shortly.”
Not a question. Not a courtesy. He gives the jeweller a brief nod—dismissive but polite—then turns and leaves the room without another look at me. The door shuts behind him with a soft, final click.
Silence floods in. I don’t move for a moment. Then I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and cross to the tea tray like this is what I was born to do. My movements are precise, unhurried. Lady Malloy to the bone. I pour carefully, steam curling up between us, the clink of porcelain the only sound in the room. I hand the jeweller his cup first.
He takes it with a grateful little smile. “Thank you, miss.”
I sit opposite him with my own cup, ankles crossed neatly, hands steady around the china. I don’t drink.
He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “The O’Callaghan family have… exquisite taste. Very traditional.”
I meet his eyes over the rim of the cup. “Let’s not pretend,” I say quietly.
He blinks. “Pardon?”
I set the cup down with deliberate care. “Let's not pretend that this is a joyous occasion. Or that I’m here to coo over settings and carats like a girl picking ribbons.”
The jeweller swallows. His polite smile falters.
“I’m only here to do my job,” he says carefully.
“So am I,” I reply.
The rings sit between us, gleaming, patient. Waiting.
I glance down at my bare hand again, then back at him. “When my future husband returns, you may show him whatever he likes.”
I fold my hands in my lap. Perfect posture. Perfect stillness.
“But don’t ask me to pretend this is romantic,” I continue softly. “I don’t have the energy for lies today.”
The jeweller nods quickly. “Of course. Of course.”
Finn returns quietly. The jeweller straightens immediately, halfway to gathering his case, already sensing he’s overstayed his welcome.
“No,” I say.
The word is soft. Absolute. Both men look at me.
I don’t take my eyes off Finn as I continue, “You can stay.”
The jeweller hesitates, glancing between us like he’s just stepped into something sacred and dangerous in equal measure. Finn’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t contradict me.
“If you’re going to do this,” I say evenly, “do it properly.”
Finn frowns. “Róisín—”
“On your knees,” I interrupt, calm as a blade. “Like a gentleman. For a proper lady.”
The room stills. The jeweller’s eyes widen a fraction, but he says nothing. This is not in any handbook he owns. Finn doesn’t move. For a long moment, I think he won’t. That pride will win. That he’ll drag this back into threat and teeth and force. Then he exhales.
Something flashes across his face—surprise, irritation, something sharper underneath. He snatches the box from my hand and drops to one knee. The sound is solid. Real. It knocks the air out of my lungs.
He opens the box and the world tilts.I know that ring.Not just recognise it—knowit. The cut. The setting. The rubies flanking the stone instead of emeralds, deep and deliberate, chosen to match something else he once swore would always be mine. A cathedral of gold holding a diamond so clear it almost hurts to look at.
This isn’t new, this isold. Planned. Promised. Dreamed of in a different life, when we were young and reckless and stupid enough to believe love could outrun blood.
My chest tightens so hard I have to swallow to breathe. Finn looks up at me from one knee, eyes dark, bare, stripped of every layer but the truth.
