“This is an asscher cut, much less common than the others. The smaller ones on each side are trapezoids. All together it’s a little over 6 carats. I like this one best. What do you think?”
I feel hot just having a ring that expensive on my person. “I think… that’s too many carats.”
“The carats don’t matter,” he says dismissively. “You’ll be wearing it forever, I want you to have something nice.”
“You’re saying a lot of things,” I say, the ring on my finger suddenly feeling like a tiny shackle. “Can we take this off, please?”
His gaze shifts to my face. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s stunning, but it’s way too much.”
“I think it’s just enough.” He lifts my hand and rotates it slightly so I can watch the light hit the sublimely cut diamond. “It’s one of the best, and that’s what you should have.”
“Can we back up to the part where you said I’ll be wearing it forever?”
“Of course you will. It’s an engagement ring. We’ll be married. Marriage is forever.”
“Oh my god, is the air working in here?” I gaze helplessly toward the thermostat, but I know the rising heat isn’t coming from the penthouse, it’s coming from the pressure inside me.
“The setting has to be platinum because I’ve already picked out your wedding band and they’ll obviously have to match. It’s an antique piece from the 1920’s.” He flashes me a mild smile. “I thought that would suit you.”
“I’m not marrying you,” I blurt gracelessly.
My stomach drops as his gaze lifts to mine. I don’t know why I expect my words to matter, to perhaps cause some hurt. He’s unfazed, then he says simply, “Yes, you are.” He draws the asscher off my hand and slides it back on the cushion. “We have a few decisions to make. For a honeymoon, I’m thinking Greece or the Maldives. I know neither is terribly original, but they’re typical choices for a reason. Maldives has my vote, but I’m fine with either. Secondly, we should decide if we want to have a smaller wedding sooner before you start to show, or wait until after the baby is already here. Whichever we choose, I think we should take a honeymoon before the baby comes. Our time without her will dwindle fast, and we haven’t really spent enough time together just the two of us. It isn’t ideal, but of course I can hire the best care possible to help us with her. We’ll interview nannies when you’re a bit further along, but I’ve already started making calls.”
Nannies and honeymoons and…
“I’m not marrying you,” I say again.
“Yes, you are,” he repeats.
“You’re supposed to ask.”
“You would have said no,” he says reasonably.
My eyes widen. “Yes. Of course I would have.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask.”
“No still means no, even if you ignore it,” I inform him.
His steady gaze on mine, he says, “If you don’t tell me your preferences, then I’ll just plan it all myself. If you have a vote, now is the time to express your desires.”
I stare at him. “Do you know how unfair you’re being?”
“Very. I’m a bastard. Greece or Maldives?”
Sighing heavily, I consult my only reference for either place—some filtered shots that have passed through my feed on social media—and say, “I don’t know. Maldives?”
He nods. “I agree. Good choice, sweetheart.”
Choice. Ha!
“And the ring?”
I glance at the simpler one I liked. It’s cushion cut and much smaller, so it’s far less intimidating than the one he likes. Meanwhile, the asscher is just like him—stunning to look at, but way too much.
I can’t bring myself to pick a ring. It feels too much like consent.
“I’m not choosing,” I tell him.
“All right,” he says easily. “The asscher it is.” He plucks the ring back off the cushion and grabs my hand. I try to pull away, and his grip tightens. I meet his gaze warily, but there’s steely determination in his that tells me he won’t be moved. I know there’s little sense in fighting him. Whether he puts the damn ring on my hand or not, he’ll consider us engaged because he’s stark raving mad.
I sigh heavily and relax my hand in his grip.
Enjoying my submission, he smiles, his dark eyes glittering with approval. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs, and I hate myself for it, but my insides turn to jelly.
Trying to shake it off, I focus on the gorgeous, way too much ring instead of the gorgeous, way too much man. A ring is safer, despite its symbolism.
“And the wedding?”
I don’t say anything for a moment. A lump forms in my throat. I’m embarrassed to feel so emotional all of a sudden, but he’s demanding more than I want to give him—again—and this time, it’s… everything.
“Please don’t make me do this,” I say quietly.
He softens ever so slightly and reaches a hand out to cradle my face. It feels reassuring even though I know the reassurance is a lie. “The decision has been made.”