Page 1 of If the Ring Fits

1

ROWENA

I’m in love with my husband—and it’s the single worst catastrophe of my life. The bitter thought churns in my head as I march through the sprawling corridors of Hartman & Associates, one of Manhattan’s elite law firms. With each step, the dread builds in my chest, constricting my lungs, my heartbeat matching the hurried cadence of my heels striking the marble floors.

My instincts tell me to turn and flee, but I have to face the reality that I can’t force Adrian to stay married to me if he doesn’t want to. So, I continue forward until I reach the glass-walled conference room where our future will be decided.

The panoramic windows showcase a dazzling bird’s-eye view of New York City, all gleaming skyscrapers and bustling streets far below. But the magnificent vista barely registers through the haze of my spiraling emotions. All I can focus on is the fast-approaching moment when the end of my marriage to Adrian will be inked in black on white, making our separation official and permanent.

I pause outside the door, collecting myself before I enterthis lion’s den of ruthless lawyers. Squaring my shoulders, I push my way in, my eyes immediately finding Adrian’s. He rises from his seat, cutting an imposing figure in his impeccably tailored charcoal suit. His chiseled features are an inscrutable mask, but when our gazes collide, a powerful jolt ricochets through me, equal parts anguish and yearning.

“Rowena.”

His deep baritone twists my insides. How can he sound so calm, so unaffected, when I’m splintering apart inside?

“Adrian,” I reply, hating the vulnerable waver in my voice. I tear my gaze from him and nod stiffly to the suited vultures flanking him. “Counselors.”

As I claim my seat across the expansive table, the distance between us is both too little and insurmountable. Adrian regards me intently, his dark brown eyes unfathomable.

I wonder wildly if he has an inkling of how much I don’t want this. Then curse myself for the umpteenth time for falling in love with my husband. Feelings were never included in the arrangement. Our marriage was supposed to be strictly business.

But somewhere along the way, between the sleepless nights tangled in each other’s arms and the quiet moments of vulnerability, I let my guard down. I let myself believe he harbored genuine feelings for me, too.

I blink back the threat of tears, pushing my nails into my palms to ground myself. But the fantasy still clamors for entry, and merciless memories invade my mind: Adrian’s tender smiles, the gentle brush of his lips against my forehead, his body moving on top of mine, the adoring look on his face when he told me he was all in.

He was lying. They all lie. And I was wrong to believe him. So very wrong.

The truth cuts deep, a searing ache that radiates from my sternum outward. I was a fool, blinded by my desire for a connection. While Adrian’s heart remained untouched, his focus solely on his ambitions.

A young secretary enters, oblivious to the charged undercurrents swirling in the room. “Can I offer you any refreshments, Mrs. West?” She calls me by his name and doesn’t know how deep it cuts. “Tea, coffee, a latte perhaps?” Her polite eagerness is almost comical against the backdrop of my crumbling world.

“A latte would be lovely, thank you,” I hear myself reply automatically, the words foreign on my tongue. As if a shot of caffeine could somehow fortify me against the looming heartbreak.

My gaze drifts back to Adrian, the magnetic pull I feel toward him torturous and unavoidable. Those dark, impenetrable eyes bore into me, betraying nothing, simultaneously igniting and chilling my blood. Under his unwavering scrutiny, I am stripped bare, every emotion laid out like an open book.

The same emotions I thought I could read on his face as we made love. But maybe for him it was always just sex—which also wasn’t part of the plan. And it’s been so long since he touched me, I can’t even remember how it felt to have his hands on my body. That should’ve been a warning. One I chose to ignore.

As the secretary returns with my latte, I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic of the mug, desperate for something solid to cling to amidst the emotional storm. The creamy liquid scalds my tongue as I take a sip, but I barely register the discomfort. My attention is entirely captured by the man across from me, the husband I’ve grown to love so deeply, and the despair of being alone in my feelings.

One of the lawyers on Adrian’s side of the table starts explaining the terms of the divorce. Not that they come as a surprise. Everything was pre-arranged in our prenup. A peaceful dissolution of our fake union has always been the planned outcome of our marriage.

I’ve seen Adrian’s determination, the way he can strip emotion out of any situation and look at the bare bones of it. So, I suppose it’s fitting that our ending will be just as calculated and sterile as our beginning was.

The lawyer’s monotonous voice drones on, each article of the prenup a dagger slicing in my gut. I nod mechanically, feigning understanding, but my mind is miles away, lost in a labyrinth of memories and what-ifs. I steal another glance at the unreadable enigma of Adrian’s face and wonder if he feels even a fraction of the turmoil raging inside me.

As each new clause keeps being read aloud to me, I fixate on the most trivial details—the way the sunlight glints off Adrian’s silver cufflinks, the faint scent of his cologne that is a hook into my heart, the barely perceptible twitch of his jaw as he listens attentively to his attorney. I commit each detail to memory, a bittersweet catalog of all that I’m about to lose.

When the lawyer ends his speech, he hands a blue folder to the secretary, who brings it over to me, politely instructing me to sign on the dotted lines wherever they’ve placed a red plastic arrow. She gives me a pen.

The weight of it between my fingers feels like a stone tied to my feet, pulling me under. I stare at the crisp white pages before me, the red plastic arrows mockingly pointing to the spots where my signature will seal my fate. My mouth goes suddenly dry. A few strokes of ink, and I’ll be erasing the last year of my life.

My gaze darts to Adrian’s unmarked signature line, and atraitorous flicker of hope sparks in my belly. He hasn’t signed yet. Why? Is he hesitating, too? Maybe, beneath that impenetrable exterior, there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to let go. But as quickly as the thought surfaces, I squash it down, refusing to indulge in any more delusions.

With trembling hands, I uncap the pen. My heart is drumming in protest against my ribcage as I poise the point next to the first red arrow. I’ve already scrawled the first letter of my name when the enormity of what I’m giving up sinks in.

I can’t do this. Sign away my love, my hopes, my dreams, without at least trying to fight for them. I may be setting myself up for even more heartbreak, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t take a last stand.

In a moment of sheer desperation, I do the only thing I can think of to buy more time. With a calculated flick of my wrist, I send my latte toppling over, its contents spilling across the divorce papers in a creamy deluge. Shocked gasps erupt from the lawyers as they scramble to salvage the documents.

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