Chapter 10: The Weight of Gold
The ring was still on her finger when they stepped through the penthouse doors.
Emma could feel it there—a three-carat anchor, cold and heavy, dragging her hand down like it was trying to pull her through the floor. The band was platinum, the diamond flawless, the whole thing so ostentatiously enormous that she'd caught the jeweler's eyebrows lifting when Dominic had pointed at it in the case. That one, he'd said. No hesitation. No consultation.
She hadn't been asked her size, her preference, her opinion. She'd simply held out her hand when instructed, and watched as Dominic slid the ring onto her finger like he was locking a door.
The penthouse was quiet. The lights were dim, the city sprawled out beyond the windows in a glittering grid of gold and white. Dominic walked ahead of her, his shoes clicking against the marble, his phone already in his hand. He was texting someone—probably his father, probably reporting on the successful acquisition of his bride-to-be.
"Come here," he said, without looking up.
Emma stopped in the middle of the living room. The fireplace was lit, the flames casting shadows that danced across the velvet furniture and the art on the walls. She didn't move.
Dominic looked up.
"I said come here."
She walked toward him. Slowly. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else, someone who knew how to do this, how to move through the world with a ring on her finger and a bruise on her cheek and a scream trapped somewhere in her chest.
He held out his hand.
She gave him hers.
He turned it over, studying the ring like he was inspecting a purchase. The diamond caught the firelight, throwing sparks across the room. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, over the pale skin of her finger, over the place where the metal met flesh.
"It fits," he said.
"Yes."
"Good." He released her hand. "You'll wear it always. You'll never take it off. Not in the shower, not in bed, not when you're alone. If I ever see your finger bare, we'll have a problem. Understood?"
Emma looked at the ring.
She thought about the way it would feel tomorrow, when she was shelving books and ringing up customers and pretending her life hadn't been signed away by a man who'd never loved her. She thought about the way it would catch the fluorescent lights of the bookstore, the way Mrs. Patterson would gasp and ask to see it, the way Emma would have to smile and say isn't it beautiful while her soul quietly withered.
"I said, understood?"
"Yes."
Dominic nodded. He walked to the bar cart in the corner, poured himself two fingers of whiskey, and drank it in one swallow. When he turned back, his expression had shifted. Softer. Almost generous.
"You can work tomorrow," he said.
Emma blinked.
"What?"
"Your little bookstore. You can work one more shift. Say goodbye to that life of yours." He said it like he was doing her a favor, like he was granting a dying woman her last wish. "After that, you're done. No more shifts, no more customers, no more shelving books for minimum wage. You're a Moretti now. You'll have responsibilities."
Emma's hands curled into fists at her sides.
One shift. One last shift. He was giving her eight hours of freedom, and he expected her to be grateful. He expected her to thank him. He expected her to kiss his ring and bow her head and say yes, my love, thank you, my love, you're so generous, my love.
"Thank you," she said.
The words tasted like ash.
Dominic smiled. It was a thin, cold thing, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers, and headed toward the master bedroom. At the door, he paused.
"Be ready by eight," he said. "The driver will take you. And Emma?"
She turned.
"Don't do anything stupid."
The door closed behind him.
Emma stood alone in the living room, the fire crackling softly, the city lights blinking beyond the glass. She looked at the ring on her finger—the way it glittered, the way it weighed, the way it seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
Then she walked to the guest room.
Her room.
The place where she slept and showered and stared at the ceiling and tried to remember who she'd been before all of this. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
She was going to work tomorrow.
She was going to see the bookstore.
She was going to see Mrs. Patterson and the creaky old register and the cat who slept in the poetry section and the window display she'd spent three weeks perfecting.
And then she was never going to see any of it again.
Emma pushed off the door and walked to the bed. She sat down on the edge, her hands in her lap, the ring catching the light from the lamp on the nightstand. She stared at it for a long time.
Then she reached for her phone.
The new one. The one Dominic had given her. The one he was probably monitoring, probably reading, probably using to track every breath she took.
She didn't care.
She opened the messages and found Craig's thread.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
She thought about the way he'd looked at her last night—really looked at her, past the bruise, past the fear, past the mask she'd been wearing since the moment her father signed that paper. She thought about the way he'd said I'm coming, like it was a promise, like it was a fact, like it was the only thing in the world he was sure of.
She thought about the way he'd made her feel something other than fear.
He's letting me work tomorrow, she typed. One last shift. I don't know why I'm telling you.
The reply came within seconds.
Because you want me there.What time?
Emma stared at the words.
She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to throw the phone across the room and watch it shatter against the wall.
Because you want me there.
He was right. He was completely, infuriatingly right. She wanted him there. She wanted him to walk through the doors of the bookstore tomorrow and look at her like she wasn't broken, like she wasn't property, like she wasn't a thing to be owned and controlled and passed around.
She wanted him there because he was the only person in her life who'd ever looked at her and seen a person instead of a problem.
Eight, she typed. But you can't come inside. He'll have someone watching.
Let him watch.
Craig.
What? You think I care about some guy in a car? I've been watched my whole life, Emma. It's practically a family tradition.
She shook her head, a small, reluctant smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. It hurt—the bruise was still tender—but she didn't stop.
You're insane.
Probably. But you're the one texting me.
She looked at the ring on her finger. The diamond winked at her, cold and indifferent.
I'm scared, she typed.
I know.
I don't know what I'm doing.
I know that too.
What if he finds out?
He won't.
What if he hurts you?
He can try.
Emma closed her eyes.
She pictured Craig walking into the bookstore tomorrow. She pictured him standing in the poetry section, his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the room until they found her. She pictured the look on his face when he saw the ring on her finger.
She pictured Dominic finding out.
She pictured what he would do.
I have to go, she typed. I need to sleep.
Okay.
Craig?
Yeah?
Thank you.
For what?
For staying.There was a pause. Then:
I'm not going anywhere.
She set the phone on the nightstand and lay back on the bed. The ceiling stared down at her, blank and white, and she stared back, her mind spinning in circles.
She thought about tomorrow.
She thought about the bookstore.
She thought about the ring on her finger and the man in the car outside and the way her life had spiraled into something she didn't recognize.
And she thought about Craig.
The asshole with the sharp edges and the bad reputation and the smile that made her stomach flip.
The man who had seen her face and didn't flinch.
The man who promised to come.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would work one last shift.
Tomorrow, she would say goodbye to the only life she'd ever known.
Tomorrow, she would see Craig again.
And for the first time in weeks, she had something to look forward to.
The ring glinted in the darkness, cold and heavy and inevitable. She turned her hand over, hiding it beneath the pillow. She didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to feel it. She didn't want to think about what it meant or what it symbolized or what it would cost her to wear it for the rest of her life.
She just wanted to sleep.
She just wanted tomorrow.
She just wanted to see him.
And somewhere across the city, in a penthouse bathed in gold and silver and secrets, a man sat alone in the dark, his phone in his hand, his heart beating faster than it had in years.
Craig Moretti was not a patient man.
But for her, he would wait.
For her, he would do a lot of things.
He just hoped she'd be worth it.
He knew she would.
That was the problem.