Chapter 18 – The Ring He Never Chose

Cassian handed her the note late in the afternoon, while she was reviewing the Cruz documentation at the drawing room table. He didn’t ask what she was reading. He didn’t interrupt.

He just placed the folded card beside her elbow.

“Seven o’clock,” he said. “Rooftop.”

She looked at the envelope, then at him.

“Is this an order?”

“No,” he said. “An opportunity.”

The card was cream stock. No seal. No flourish.

Inside, in his handwriting:

Wear something that doesn’t apologize. — C

—

By sunset, the Caro estate’s rooftop had been cleared of its usual furniture. In its place stood a low table with a bottle of scotch, two heavy crystal glasses, and an old wooden box. Cassian stood at the railing, facing the skyline, sleeves rolled, his jacket slung over the back of a chair.

She stepped into the space without slowing.

Her dress was black, deep, and glitter-laced. A slip of starlight against her skin. It caught every breath of movement, clung like heat, and shimmered like threat. It dipped low at the back, high at the thigh, framing her figure in a way no apology could survive. Her stilettos were patent black, each step punctuating the long, toned line of her legs — skin warm with candle-glow, impossibly smooth, unapologetically bare.

“Something that doesn’t apologize?” she asked, her voice cool silk, clutch still in hand.

Cassian turned.

And froze.

The way men freeze when instinct overrides intention.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t move either — like stepping forward would be conceding something.

“You wore the right thing,” he said, voice lower than before.

She walked toward him, the curve of her hips casting sharp shadows in the dusk. She didn’t rush. The hem of the dress shifted with each step, catching light like it was flirting.

“This isn’t about the gala,” she said, stopping beside the table.

“No.”

“Not about the foundation.”

“No.”

Her tone softened, but her gaze didn’t. “Then what is it?”

Cassian looked at her — not just her face, but all of her. Like he couldn’t decide where to land. The line of her neck. The glint of her bare shoulder. The pulse in her collarbone.

He reached for the box and opened it.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet: a ring. Platinum, vintage. A narrow band of black diamonds that drank the light instead of reflecting it.

“I had it reset,” he said. “Smaller. Sharper.”

He looked up. This time, his eyes held.

“No one picked this for me. Not the board. Not the families. I chose it because I wanted to.”

He paused, and added — quietly, like it cost him something:

“You’ve stayed. Despite everything. That matters more than anything I can say.”

She didn’t speak. Just watched the way his fingers brushed the box — careful, reverent.

“It’s mine to offer,” he said. “Because if I lose this moment, I lose the right to know what comes next.”

Elise let the silence bloom between them — intimate, charged.

Then she extended her hand.

Palm up. Deliberate.

Cassian’s breath hitched.

Not visibly.

But enough.

He slid the ring onto her finger with care. The metal cooled her skin. The weight was nothing. But the meaning — it pressed against something deeper.

Her skin didn’t flinch — but some part of her, buried and bitter, wanted to.

His fingers lingered.

Not possessive.

Almost hesitant.

She pulled back first.

And he let her.

But the restraint cost him something.

—

When she descended the terrace steps, Camila was waiting. Arms folded. Linen sheath, carefully chosen to look effortless.

“So that’s the ring,” she said lightly. “Unorthodox choice.”

Elise didn’t slow.

“It wasn’t chosen for tradition.”

“No. I imagine Cassian thought that would impress you.”

“It didn’t.”

“And yet it’s still on your hand.”

Elise turned just slightly, letting the ring catch the hallway light.

“I find it useful.”

Camila’s gaze narrowed.

“For what?”

“For watching who stares longest.”

—

At dinner, the ring stayed visible.

Not flaunted.

Just worn like a blade she didn’t have to draw.

A cousin stared too long. An aunt said nothing but set down her fork too hard. Even the staff adjusted — course by course, glance by glance.

But Matteo wasn’t there.

And that absence wasn’t silence.

It was a signal.

He never came to these dinners. But he always sent a message — a look, a presence, a reminder.

Tonight, there was none.

That wasn’t neglect.

That was intent.

—

Back in her suite, she slipped off the dress slowly, like shedding smoke.

She didn’t place the ring on the vanity.

She set it in the ceramic tray where keys go — far from mirrors, far from declarations.

It wasn’t ready to reflect anything yet.

Then she opened her journal.

The ring is not a promise.

It’s bait.

It will draw more than just attention.

It will draw the question no one wants to say aloud:

Who does she belong to now?

Not Cassian.

Not Matteo.

But someone dangerous enough to wear black diamonds without asking.