The rest blurs—talk of security details, guest lists, which family jewels I’ll wear to the engagement party on New Year’s Eve where we’ll announce everything to the world. Through it all, Sasha’s thumb worries my bleeding palm, smearing our pact across skin.
Eventually, dinner ends and it’s time to leave. We’re almost to the foyer when Leander calls out, “Ariana.”
I grit my teeth at the dead name, but I turn anyway.
He hesitates—just a flicker—before tossing me a velvet box. I stop short when I open it.
Inside glistens Mom’s engagement ring, the emerald-cut diamond she hurled at his head the night she left. “She’d want you to have it,” Baba mutters, suddenly fascinated by his cufflinks.
I snap the lid shut. “Thank you, Baba.”
Then the door slams behind us. I make it halfway down the
