The room smells faintly of polished wood and white orchids, the sort of understated luxury designed to remind clients that everything here is rare.Exclusive.Untouchable to anyone who isn’t wealthy enough to belong.
A man in a charcoal suit approaches immediately, his smile polished and practiced.
“Mr.Moretti.We’ve been expecting you.”
Of course they have.
Men like Dante Moretti don’t browse jewelry stores.
They visit for a purpose.
Moretti inclines his head slightly.
“We’re here for an engagement ring.”
The jeweler’s attention shifts to me.
His gaze sweeps over me with professional precision—taking in the dress, the posture, the unmistakable tension humming in the space between Moretti and me.
He’s trying to decide what kind of woman ends up engaged to a man like Dante Moretti.
“Congratulations.”
I say nothing.
Moretti’s hand settles once more at the small of my back.
Warm.
Possessive.
The touch sends an unwelcome ripple along my spine.
“We’ll use the private salon,” the jeweler says smoothly.
Moments later, we’re seated in a secluded room lined with velvet display tables.
One tray after another appears before us, each containing diamonds large enough to blind a room—emerald cuts the size of ice cubes, oval stones glowing like captured starlight, radiant diamonds that look as though they belong in royal collections rather than on someone’s finger.
The display looks less like jewelry and more like a fortune laid out on velvet.
Each one is more obscene than the last.
“Try them,” Moretti says quietly.
“I’m not trying on rings for a marriage I didn’t agree to.”
His gaze lifts.
Dark.Intent.Unyielding.
“Valentina.”
Just my name.
Low and controlled.A warning disguised as patience.
I reach for the first ring.
