The Last Choice
My fiancé presented two engagement rings—one for me, one for my sister to choose first.
The first was a three-carat fancy pink diamond, flown in from Antwerp, the kind that made dealers go quiet. The second was a plain platinum band, standard issue, the sort you buy off the tray as a backup.
For the first time in my life, I pointed at the pink diamond. "I'll choose first this time."
Dante Moretti ran his hand through my hair, the way you soothe a restless dog. "Eleanor, you know Grace has always been particular. If she can't have the best, she'd rather have nothing. You've never cared about any of this. The other one is fine."
I didn't answer. My chest felt hollow.
We'd grown up together—his