Page 61 of Fake Dark Vows
“Fine.”
I forget all about terms and conditions when we step inside Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue, and Brandon asks to look at engagement rings. The assistant is polished, groomed to within an inch of her life, and I wish I’d painted my nails before I came out.
“What do you have in mind?” she asks. Her hair is fastened at the nape of her neck with a diamante-encrusted clip. Her jewelry is understated but expensive.
And I don’t know what to say because the ring was never the important part of my dreams. It’s the person standing next to me that’s important.
“I-I’m not sure.” I study the diamonds inside the glass cabinets, my eyes widening.
“It’s okay.” The assistant glances at Brandon and back at me. “It can be a little overwhelming trying to choose the perfect diamond. After all, it’s a symbol of forever.”
I swallow as she unlocks the cabinet in front of her and removes a huge diamond set in a simple platinum band.
“This is the classic brilliant cut,” she says. “Try it on. Hold it to the light. Get a feel for the shape and weight of it on your finger.” She turns discreetly away as I slide it onto my ring finger.
It’s the largest diamond I’ve ever seen outside of the movies. Heavy too. I try to picture wearing this when I go to the grocery store or jump in the shower, and the enormity of what we’re doing hits me like a blow to the stomach.
“Breathe.” Brandon’s eyes are filled with concern. He turns to the assistant and asks her to fetch a glass of water while he leads me to a velvet-cushioned seat. “It’s okay,” he says, kneeling in front of me.
I try to speak but no words come out, and I realize my hand is still frozen in front of my face.
“Rose,” his voice is urgent. “It’s only a ring. Choose whichever one you like. I want you to… I want you to be happy.”
That’s the problem though. It isn’t only a ring and wearing it like this isn’t going to make me happy.
I choose a pear-shaped solitaire diamond on a platinum band. Brandon doesn’t let me see the price tag. The assistant positions the ring inside a neat velvet-lined box and hands it over to him after he pays for it with his Amex card.
I don’t question it. There’s a lump in my throat the size of an apple core—or a Tiffany diamond—and I follow Brandon out of the store, his hand gently guiding my back, and into the Prada store. His warm touch leaves an imprint at the base of my spine that I’m certain must be visible to anyone behind me.
He speaks to an assistant who comes over and inspects me head-to-toe as if she’d like to strip me naked and burn what I’m wearing on the spot. I follow her to a dressing room and try on the kind of Blake-Lively-worthy clothes that I’ve only ever seen in magazines and on social media. They feel exactly how they look: expensive.
Brandon steps into his Richard Gere role with apparent ease, smiling when I give him a twirl in an outfit that he likes, and scrunching up his nose when he disapproves. He pays for our purchases—his purchases—and provides an address for them to be forwarded to. The same happens in Club Monaco and Salvatore Ferragamo.
It’s surreal.
I always thought that I would never be the woman who allowed a man to choose her clothes, but Brandon has taste, and my head is still buzzing with the niggling notion that we still haven’t signed a contract, and none of this stuff belongs to me. But when his fingers entwine around mine, I don’t resist. How could I?
We ride a limousine back to Brandon’s apartment. A limousine!
He tosses his keys into a priceless antique bowl—at least it looks priceless—and tells me to make myself at home. My head is still back in the café, and I stand in the middle of the lobby trying to take in the panoramic view through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Rose?” He unfastens his tie and switches on the coffee machine on the counter of the open-plan kitchen. “Is your dad expecting you to come home?”
“Ye-es?”
“I think you should stay here. The guest room is made up.”
Just like that, the tears are back. I don’t know if it’s because what happened on the beach meant nothing to him, or because reality is finally penetrating the golden fuzz of an afternoon spent shopping on his credit card.
“The car is picking us up at seven.”
“What are we going to see?”
“Moulin Rouge. I’ve heard that it’s … colorful.”
I don’t tell him that it’s my favorite movie. We haven’t reached the swapping personal stuff stage yet—we’re only engaged to be married.
I tell my dad that Jess and I are staying in a log cabin for a few days. I need to get away, clear my head, get my ass back into job-hunting mode after Ruby Island. I know he’ll be lonely, but he tells me to have fun anyway.