CHAPTER 10: Noelle

Noelle

I parked where a car wasn't supposed to be parked and where someone's father probably mowed every two days, mostly because I couldn't quite find wherever cars were actually supposed to be parked, and sat there for a solid thirty seconds gripping the wheel.

I breathed out, slowly.

Fine. Okay. In. Ring. Out. That was the plan. Not complicated. Or just drop it at the door as earlier discussed.

I got out before I could think myself out of it, ring clutched in my fist like it might make a break for it, and walked up to a front door that was easily twice my height, dark wood with iron detailing that matched the gate, because apparently even the door needed to remind you this wasn't a place that did anything halfway.

The suited men all watched me and I felt like an ant under a microscope. I half expected one of them to tackle me to the ground but nope, they all just stared at me while some looked away as though I was not a worthwhile use of their time.

The walk up alone took longer than it should have. Stone path, perfectly even, not a single crack for me to trip on and blame my nerves on instead of myself. Somewhere off to the left, a fountain murmured quietly to nobody, doing its expensive little job of existing beautifully whether or not anyone was there to admire it.

I passed a hedge trimmed into a shape too precise and my kind wandered back to whoever the gardener was.

I'm sorry ma'am or sir. I squeezed my eyes shut at the thought of that.

There wasn't a doorbell. There was a knocker, heavy and brass, shaped like something I didn't have time to identify before I lifted it and let it fall.

The sound echoed. Actually echoed, I stood there afterward with my heart doing something unpleasant and rapid against my ribs, running through the plan one more time like repetition might make it feel less insane. For some reason I couldn't just drop the ring and make a run for it not with all the scrutiny from the security personnels

In. Ring. And straight out, that was all I needed to do.

I mean if I hadn't yet been tackled to the ground or shot out, I was definitely no threat. But then again, it could mean that a lot, positive or negative, was waiting for me behind the door.

My mind drifted to those crime shows I binged watched with Summer. Mom warned us about those.

I heard footsteps, unhurried, and then the door opened.

She was beautiful in the specific, engineered way, so put together I could imagine how much getting her lustrous hair done would cost and how much time it took her to get ready. Okay. Definitely not a staff.

Dark hair pulled back in something effortlessly yet so strict, not a single strand dared to act out of character.

She was in a silk robe that probably cost more than my rent, bare feet with a pedicure so fresh I could almost smell the polish from where I stood.

I became suddenly, uncomfortably aware of my own hoodie, the one I'd picked specifically to blend in at a pawn shop and had apparently now decided to wear to a mansion.

She looked at me the way you'd look at a delivery you weren't expecting but weren't unhappy about either.

"Oh," she said, brightening. "Are you from the jeweler? I thought they were sending someone this afternoon."

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My brain, usually so reliable in a crisis, had apparently clocked out the second the door opened and left me standing there like a mannequin with a ring in my fist and no working sentences left in my head.

My brain was as good as foam.

I could've taken the opportunity, the perfect opening to say ‘no, actually, I'm not from the jeweler, there's been a mix-up, I just need five minutes with Emeric and then I'll be out of your hair forever.’ But I stayed mute.

"You have it?" She asked, sounding nearly impatient, reaching, eyes bright, the way you reach for a package you've been waiting on. "I've been dying to see it properly, he's so secretive about everything, wouldn't even let me see the sketch."

My fingers curled tighter around the ring I had absolutely zero rights to.

"I—" I started, and had absolutely nothing to follow it with.

She didn't seem to notice the silence stretching too long, too strange for a simple delivery. If anything, she read it as nerves , the kind of nervousness a stranger might get standing on the doorstep of a house like this one, holding something worth more than they'd ever held in their life. Which, in fairness, was also technically true, just not for the reason she assumed.

"Oh, don't be shy, come in, come in." She stepped back, holding the door wider, already turning to lead me somewhere further into a house I had no business being inside of. "I've heard it's a custom setting. I want to see every angle before I decide if I'm going to cry about it."

What? Cry about it?

Definitely She meant tears of joy but you could never know with the rich folk.

She said it lightly, laughing a little at her own joke, the easy laugh of someone who'd gotten whatsoever they ever wished for. I envied that laugh briefly, before I felt guilty for envying anything about a woman I didn't even know.

The entryway alone could have fit my entire kitchen inside it. A chandelier hung somewhere above us, all crystal and restrained, expensive light, and beneath it a round table held a single enormous arrangement of white flowers that probably got replaced every few days whether they needed it or not.

"This way," she said, already several steps ahead, her robe trailing behind.

I stood frozen half a step inside the door, one hand still curled around the ring, feeling the exact moment slip past where turning around and leaving would have still looked normal instead of suspicious.

She glanced back over her shoulder at me, waiting, warm and expectant and entirely certain of who I was and why I'd come, an assumption I hadn't corrected and, God help me, still wasn't correcting even now, standing here with every opportunity in the world to just say it.

I could tell her right now that I wasn't from the jeweler and just asked to see Emeric but whatever on earth stunned people into silence, stunned me. My father was definitely turning in his grave at how fragile my self worth was. Can I be blamed? Really?

I could feel the words sitting right on my tongue but I couldn't think of a single thing to say.