Chapter 3

I knew the day I would leave was coming soon.

I went back to my room and packed a few personal documents and IDs.

Everything Zara had ever given me stayed where it was. I didn't want any of it.

There was only one thing I wanted to take with me, the only thing my grandmother had left behind.

Even though I had moved into Zara's family estate, my grandmother was still worried Zara might feel slighted.

Without telling me, she melted the old gold bracelet passed down through our family and had it made into a pair of earrings and two wedding rings.

The earrings and Zara's ring had both been gifts from my grandmother.

All I wanted was the ring that belonged to me.

A few days ago, Zara suddenly asked to borrow it. She probably forgot to give it back and tossed it somewhere in her jewelry cabinet.

But after searching through the entire thing, I still couldn't find it.

The cabinet was filled with sparkling pieces of jewelry, but the small ring I was looking for was nowhere in sight.

I was about to ask one of the housemaids when the front door opened.

Zara came back with Charles.

She had even brought dinner with her. It wasn't leftovers; the food was freshly made, packed neatly into containers.

And every dish was something I liked.

She was always thoughtful in little ways like this.

Sometimes, it even made me believe she might've actually fallen in love with me.

But I didn't look at the food.

I asked directly, "Where's my ring?"

Before Zara could answer, Charles stepped forward and raised his hand, showing me the gold ring on his finger.

"You mean the wedding ring?" he said with a smile. "I noticed Zara never took hers off, so I got curious and borrowed the other one to try on. Later, I decided to melt both rings down and make this signet ring. Sorry about that. I made the decision without asking you. Just tell me how much it costs and I'll pay you back."

My chest tightened.

"Zara," I said quietly, "that was our wedding ring."

Zara paused for a moment.

Then she casually picked up a fork, grabbed a bite of the food I usually liked best, and held it out toward me.

"It was just a symbol," she said. "If you want another wedding ring, I'll buy you one."

She had forgotten that the ring was the only thing my grandmother had left me. No amount of money could replace it.

I leaned away from the food she was offering and said flatly, "No, thanks. I don't want your money."

Charles's voice immediately choked up. He slipped the ring off his finger and looked at me with watery eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I suddenly had one of my episodes and insisted on melting the rings. Please don't blame Zara. If I've caused trouble between you two… I can't live with myself. I'd rather just die!"

Zara wasn't short on money. She could've bought him a new ring.

Charles knew exactly how important that ring was to me. He did it on purpose.

And somehow, Zara still didn't notice.

She had clearly come over intending to apologize.

But the moment she saw Charles on the verge of breaking down, she dropped the fork and rushed over to comfort him.

"They were just a couple of rings," she said firmly. "If melting them to make that ring makes you happy, then that's all that matters. There's nothing for you to apologize for."

Charles glanced toward the stairs, where I had already started walking away. "What about Joseph?"

"Don't worry," Zara said. "I'll compensate him."

By then, I was already upstairs.

I closed the door behind me.

My parents had died when I was young. My grandmother had been the one who raised me.

And now, I couldn't even protect the last thing she left me.

Maybe this was her way of telling me from somewhere above that this relationship had gone on long enough.

I pulled a sheet of paper from the notebook on my desk.

It was filled with rows of numbers.

At the very bottom, I wrote another one.

Ninety-eight.

At some point, Zara had walked into the room without making a sound.

Before I could hide the paper, she reached over and pulled it out of my hand.

She stared at it, her brows knitting together. A trace of unease flickered across her face.

"What's this supposed to mean?"

I quickly grabbed the paper back.

"It's nothing," I said. "Just scribbling."

She looked a little surprised by my reaction.

Then something seemed to click in her mind.

"Oh," she said slowly. "You're still thinking about that game from last time, aren't you? The one where you tried more than 20 times and still couldn't win the stuffed toy."

She was talking about the day we were walking downtown and stopped at a small street stall.

She suddenly decided she wanted one of the plush toys, so I tried the little number puzzle game the vendor was running.

But no matter how many times I tried, I couldn't write the full sequence of 100 numbers without making a mistake.

In the end, we left empty-handed.

Seeing she had misunderstood, I didn't bother explaining.

I just nodded.