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He hesitates and then sits on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to stop coming to the office? Stop working for your father?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell your father we broke up?”

“I forgot.” I didn’t.

He sighs and stands up, but I catch his wrist.

“And I didn’t want to,” I say.

“Why?”

“Did we break up?” I mean, yes, it kind of felt like it in the beginning, but I never wanted to. I just needed time.

“Does that mean… we’re still…”

“Still what?” Say it. Please.

“Together? Engaged?”

“You never got me a ring.” I peer down at my hand, empty where his ring should be.

Yes.

It should be there. Because everything I want is with him. I miss him. His nagging. His stupid jokes and possessiveness. I love him with a ferocity that scares me sometimes, with a depth that I never knew was possible.

“I did.” He walks over to his bag and plucks a little blue velvet box from it.

Is that? Did he?

“You have it with you?” I ask.

“Always. Everywhere.” The bed dips under his weight as he settles down beside me again.

“Can I see it?”

“It belongs to you.” He opens up the box and reveals the ring inside.

It glimmers in the soft light of the room, stealing my breath. It’s a delicate sapphire, the deep blue hue reminding me of the night sky just before it turns pitch black. The band is a braided white gold, intricately woven like the threads of our tangled history.

Shit. It’s perfect.

Tears sting my eyes. He knows me too damn well. The ring is perfect because Connor is perfect.

This is real. This is happening. Connor Milton, my stalker, my lover, wants to marry me. Wants to bind himself to me forever.

A part of me screams to run, that this is insane. That I can’t trust him after everything he’s done. The lies, the deception, the constant watching. It’s twisted and wrong.

But the bigger part of me, the part that craves his touch, his intensity, his unwavering devotion, wants to say yes. It wants to slip this ring on my finger and never take it off.

Because despite everything, I love him. I love the way he looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world. The way he touches me, like he’s worshipping every inch of my skin. The way he knows me, really knows me.

It’s fucked up and complicated and messy. But it’s us. It’s always been us.

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