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“Then it’s fine. Liam let you go, Maeve. Once that happens, he doesn’t have any kind of claim on you.”

“I know that. But it doesn’t mean it won’t feel awkward to everyone.”

“It won’t.”

I hope that he’s right, although I’m not so sure it’ll be as cut and dried as he thinks. But I really can’t turn down this money. To be debt free will feel like being able to breathe again. And to actually have a shot at my dream… it makes me want to cry just thinking about it.

Anything I have to deal with along the way, including facing my ex, will be worth it for that.

“Fine,” I say. “You really didn’t have to take me out for lunch to tell me this though. Although the park is nice.”

“I thought it might be best to give you some privacy for the news. And we have a stop to make.”

“A stop?”

Ford stands and throws away our trash from lunch. “If you’re going to be my fiancée, then you need a proper ring.”

My stomach drops. Although we were literally just talking about this whole charade, the idea of having a ring to go with it makes it feel more real than ever. “You really don’t need to get me anything. I can find something. And lots of modern people don’t even wear rings.”

He cocks a brow at me. “You’re getting a ring. A proper one.”

I swallow. Ford might insist on calling me Spitfire, and I think he secretly likes it when I’m stubborn, but I know when not to argue with him. I just don’t know what to do with him using that quiet command of his to buy me a nice ring. We’re in Manhattan, and there’s nothing I would exactly call affordable around here.

“You can buy it,” I say, mustering as much defiance as I can, “but you can’t make me wear it.”

“You’d be amazed at the things I can do,” Ford replies. He offers me his arm, like we really are already putting on a show.

“You don’t have to do that. Unless someone from Silver Start is here watching us.”

“We’re about to go into a ring shop. I’d like the employees not to think that I’m holding you at gunpoint.”

“Why bother with gunpoint when you can find so many worse ways to get me to do what you want,” I grumble, but I take his arm.

I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the employees, either. I don’t want them wondering if this is something illegal or coming up with any other number of crazy scenarios in their heads.

Ford leads me directly to the iconic Art Deco building on 5th Avenue that houses Harry Winston. I balk as we head for the door. I don’t know a lot about luxury items, including jewelry, so I’m sure there are other brands out there, other companies, that are also well known. Maybe even more iconic. But Harry Winston is the name in diamonds. He’s name-dropped in Marilyn Monroe’s signature song, Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.

I know that Ford is stubborn, and of course he’d want to buy his fake fiancée the best of the best, but the idea of him taking me here makes me go cold with discomfort. And, maybe, also, makes my stomach flutter again.

It might be fake, but it’s still nice to pretend for a second that a man is in love with me enough to want to get me something so nice.

Ford looks at me as I make us stop. “Maeve. You’re not going to put me out by letting me buy you a ring.”

I swallow. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t waste time arguing with you when you’re just going to win and get your way, anyway.”

“You’re learning.” Ford sounds faintly amused, and gets the door for me.

Inside, it’s like stepping into a whole new world. Everything exudes expense and luxury. It’s quiet, hushed, almost, like I’m inside a church. Beautiful jewels, mainly diamonds, sparkle and gleam under the tasteful, muted lighting.

Ford puts a hand on the small of my back and leads me to the counter where rings sit. There aren’t nearly as many as you see in those commercials for engagement rings or from what I’ve caught glimpses of at jewelry counters in department stores. There are just a few rings per velvet case, nestled with loving care and given plenty of room to show off.

I feel my knees go weak. There are no price tags on any of the rings, but that only makes me more certain that they’re extremely expensive. In the tens of thousands of dollars, at least, if I had to guess. I can’t possibly let Ford spend this much money on me—even if he can return it in a month when this charade is over.

I move further down the counter, trying to find the rings that look simpler, with smaller diamonds.

“Can I look at this one?” I ask the professional, silent saleswoman who’s been politely waiting about five feet away. I appreciate that she’s not in our faces about it but is ready to help us if we need it. If a salesperson was shoving rings at me right now, I think I might actually run out of the store.

The woman—her nametag says Bianca—pulls the ring out for me to examine.