Page 76 of Reckless King

I’m running a comb through my hair when there’s a knock on my bedroom door. “What is it?” I yell out rather than opening it. I’m not sure I want to face Tate just yet.

In response, the door swings open, but instead of finding Tate in the doorway, I come face to face with Anna.

“Oh my god! What are you doing here?” I rush to give her a hug.

“I got a personal invitation from your fiancé,” she says with a grin.

I’d called her first thing after the shock of our sudden engagement, to much amusement on her part. But I wasn’t expecting to see her here. “Wait. Are you my appointment?”

“Not quite. Come on.” She bounces on her toes and grasps my hand. “Nice new digs, by the way.”

“I suppose,” I say, following her down the hall. “If you like luxury high-rise living.”

She laughs, and so do I, because Tate’s apartment is ridiculously gorgeous. But we both go silent at the sound of another feminine laugh coming from the living area.

As we step into the space and Tate and the mystery woman come into view, my heart does a strange little palpitation. The jealousy I was feeling before sharpens its claws as I take in the way he’s smiling down at the pretty woman who looks just a little older than him. Is this the person he was messaging by the pool?

I take a deep breath. Regardless of who she is, I need to get a grip. Tate isn’t mine, and I’m not his. And I have no reason, or right, to be jealous.

“Hi,” the woman chirps when she catches sight of me. “You must be Violet. I’m Isabelle. I’m so happy to meet you.” She strides toward me with her hand held out.

I shake it, but eye Tate, hoping for an explanation. He merely gives me an enigmatic smile. When I turn to Anna, she just waggles her brows.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” I finally say. “But I’m not sure who you are.”

She laughs again, that same tinkling sound that had my hackles up when it was directed at Tate. But now that it’s directed at me, it doesn’t sound flirty at all. And the excited smile on her face pulls an answering one from me. As if her delight is contagious.

“Sounds like your man is keeping secrets,” she says.

I look over at Tate again, warmth kindling deep in my chest at the sound of her calling him my man. “Sounds like it,” I murmur. I turn to Anna. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Yep. Yourmantold me everything.”

“Come and sit at the table,” Isabelle says. “And I’ll pour some champagne.”

Champagne?I seek out Tate again. Rather than smiling, this time he merely nods toward the table, his expression inscrutable.

Giving up the fight to figure out what’s going on, I wander to the dining area, where Isabelle has placed a large black box. From another, smaller box, she pulls out a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

Anna and I sit, and Isabelle pours us both a drink.

“You’re not having one?” I ask.

She gives me a cheeky little smile. “I’d be skinned alive if I drank alcohol while handling the merchandise.”

Before I have time to question anything more, she undoes the box and pulls back both sides. I blink, not only in surprise, but because I’m hit with dozens of tiny rays of light. The box is filled with rings that glitter under the overhead fixture. This selection is far more eclectic than what we saw at the store this afternoon. These rings don’t just boast beautiful diamonds, but rubies, sapphires, opals, and other gems I can’t name. Big and small stones, platinum, gold, rose gold bands.

With my hand pressed to my chest, I look up at her. “What is this?”

She smiles. “Your fiancé asked me to curate a selection of ethically sourced and unique rings, tailored to your day-to-day activities and style. All of these have been crafted with materials chosen for their provenance. The gemstones and metals are sourced from conflict-free economies. Their creation has had a minimal impact on the environment. And they were mined by people benefiting from fair and safe working conditions.” Isabelle removes a cloth from the box and unfolds it. “Some of these gemstones are recycled or second-hand. They also range in value. Though from what I understand after my conversationwith your fiancé, the source and wearability of your ring are of more importance than the value. And if you don’t find one you love, I can come back with more.”

Keeping my focus locked on the display box, I take a second, inhaling deeply to make sure the tears blurring my vision won’t spill over my lashes. Then I turn, anxious to express my gratitude to Tate, only to find him gone. He probably headed to his office to work. My heart does an almost painful little stutter when I realize he won’t be here for this.

This must have been what he was doing when he was sending and receiving messages on his phone on our way back from Fifth Avenue. He was arranging this appointment, and he managed to contact my best friend as well, so that she could be here with me as well. He went out of his way to make it fun for me, rather than stressful.

I absolutely love having Anna here, but I can’t help but wish that Tate was helping me choose. That when I find the perfect ring, he’d be the one slipping it onto my finger. As if it actually means something.

As if this were real.

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