Page 120 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
Before Brennan can knock, a man opens the front door.
He’s tall, elegant, in tailored slacks and a linen waistcoat. His skin is warm bronze, his dark curls shot through with silver at the temples. Everything about him radiates curated charm. But it’s his eyes—dark, knowing, amused—that pin me in place.
His gaze shifts briefly to Dorian and Brennan, and something softens. “It’s been too long.” There’s a flicker of real warmth there, as though the past holds layered stories none of them are about to share in front of me.
“Indeed.” Dorian offers a nod, the kind that seems to pass for friendship in their circles. Brennan says nothing,
“Welcome to Vignette,” the man goes on, his voice a smooth drawl kissed with French.
I’m no closer to knowing what this place is or why we’re here.
“You must be Isla. I’m Théo Duplantier.”
“Mr. Duplantier.”
“Théo, please.”
We enter the home, and I’m astounded.
Velvet drapes in midnight blue frame tall windows. The chandeliers dripping from the ceiling are crystal but not ostentatious. Everything glows—the polished wood floors,the soft light. Rare stones are nestled in glass cases like captured stars.
There’s no music, but the silence hums, reverent.
Are we in a jewelry store?
I frown. It doesn’t feel like a shop. Not really. More like a private salon folded inside a historic home, its front parlor transformed into a gallery of light and shadow. Glass display cases are set like small altars with each showing off a single piece or a small collection.
Nothing is labeled, and there are no price tags.
Despite myself, I’m drawn in, and I begin to wander around, even without an invitation.
I’m captivated by a sapphire set in rose gold that looks like it belongs in a museum—or a fairy tale. Another case holds a pair of earrings so delicate I’m afraid to breathe too hard. Every piece feels personal, intentional, as if it’s waiting to be chosen by the right person.
Dorian joins me, and his voice cuts through my wonder.
“We wanted you to have your own engagement ring.”
My breath catches. I hadn’t really thought of it. “The wedding band is all I need.”
“People will wonder. Ask.”
And Margaux’s ring had been featured in more than one gossip column. For our story to hold, it makes sense that he wants me to have my own piece.
Théo appears beside us. “The ring is the final line in a love story—or the first in a new one.”
“A new one,” Dorian agrees.
“You were right to bring her,” Théo says quietly to Dorian, but his eyes never leave me. “The adventure begins.”
Everyone I’ve met seems to talk in vague riddles.
Théo smiles. “May I offer you a glass of champagne or perhaps a café au lait?”
“Café au lait would be lovely,” I say, finding my voice.
He nods, and a few moments later, another person joins us. She’s dressed in a tuxedo, even though it’s still morning, and she’s got a tray containing my beverage and a decanter of whiskey, along with two glasses.
She places everything on a small table that sits between antique chairs upholstered in velvet. Every detail seems to have been especially curated for us.
