Page 90 of Role Play
“Then the answer is yes.Yes.A thousand times yes.”
He slides the ring onto my finger—a perfect fit, which seems impossible—and leans close to whisper in my ear, “Unfortunately, we’ll have to give the ring back.”
“Nooope. Not happening. It’s stunning,” I say, admiring how the diamond catches the light. The band is platinum, I think, with smaller diamonds flanking the center stone. It looks antique, with delicate filigree work that speaks of craftmanship and history.
“Sora, I could go to jail if you ran off with something like this.”
“A risk I’m willing to take,” I tease. “How much is something like this worth?”
“Two of your brownstones,” Forrest answers without missing a beat.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “That’s obscene.”
“That’s billionaire romance,” he counters with a smirk.
He joins me on the sofa, his arm stretching casually along the back behind me. His fingers are close enough to my bare shoulder that I can feel their warmth, but he doesn’t quite touch me.
“So, what do you think? Did it give you butterflies?” he asks, adorably eager.
I twist the ring on my finger, watching the play of light across its facets. The weight of it is both foreign and oddly satisfying. I’ve never been the kind of girl who spent hours dreaming about engagement rings, but I have to admit, this one is breathtaking.
“An entire butterfly garden,” I tell him. “The yacht, the private chef, the string quartet, the proposal under the stars…it’s textbook perfection. But like I said, not for me.”
His fingers brush against my shoulder, sending a small shiver along my back. “What would win you over, then? If not wealth and luxury?”
The question feels weighted with layers of meaning neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
“I don’t know yet. But it needs to be real and honest. Not like this. Not the things you and I can’t have.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Hurt pinches Forrest’s face before he can mask it, and I wish I could take it back.
“I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t be,” he says. “You’re right. This isn’t real.”
A heaviness settles over us, a shared recognition of the boundaries we’ve established and the pretense that keeps us safe. The string quartet has begun playing again, something slow and melancholy that matches the sudden shift in mood.
I find myself staring at the ring again, imagining a version of reality where it isn’t borrowed, where Forrest isn’t playing a part, where I’m not just gathering material for a book.
“I used to pretend I was engaged when I was little,” I confess, the words slipping out unbidden. “I’d wrap a piece of yarn around my finger and make up elaborate stories about my ‘fiancé’ for my stuffed animals. They were very impressed.”
Forrest’s smile returns, softer now. “What was he like? Your imaginary fiancé?”
“Strong. Kind.” I laugh a little, embarrassed. “He had a horse named Lightning.”
“Of course he did.” Forrest chuckles. “Every good fiancé needs a trusty steed.”
“What about you?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Did you ever imagine your future spouse when you were younger?”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “I can honestly say I don’t ever think about love until I’m somehow already in it.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the distant hum of the yacht’s engines and the gentle lapping of water against the hull the only sounds. The city is growing closer as we make our way back to the marina, the night drawing to a close.
Forrest stands, holding out his hand once more. “One more dance?”
I accept his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. This time when he holds me, there’s a reverence to his touch, as if I’m something precious and fragile.
I close my eyes, surrendering to the fantasy. For these few stolen moments, I allow myself to believe that this is my life—that I’m a woman newly engaged to a man who adores me, that we’re celebrating our love beneath the stars, that our future stretches before us, bright with promise.
