Page 165 of Mission Shift

My lips parted, but no words came out. I was still frozen, overwhelmed. But his hand stayed firmly wrapped around mine, tugging me forward. I followed.

“Thank you,” Braxton told the doorman, who nodded and held the door open wider. We stepped into a world of quiet elegance and pristine glass, where soft music floated through the air and diamonds glittered under museum-quality lighting.

A poised woman in a charcoal-colored suit approached us. “Welcome. I’m Amelia,” she said. “I’ll be assisting you today.”

Braxton offered her his hand. “Braxton Thorin. This is my wife.”

Amelia smiled at me with genuine warmth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Thorin. We’ve been expecting you.” She turned slightly. “We’ve prepared a private viewing room. May I offer you a glass of champagne to mark the occasion?”

“Yes, please,” I managed to say.

She took my free hand, the one not clutched in Braxton’s, and examined it briefly, her trained eyes flicking across my fingers.

A moment later, she stepped over to a man stationed beside a glass display and whispered something to him. He replied, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of it now.”

Amelia returned with a graceful smile. “Right this way.”

She led us toward the back of the store, to a quiet and curated world where people chose forever.

Amelia couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m thrilled to be assisting you both today. I have no doubt we’ll find the perfect piece.”

She gestured to a formal antique desk situated in the center of the private room. It was made of polished cherry wood and had clawed feet. Velvet-covered armchairs sat on either side of it. She moved to stand behind the desk, her posture straight and confident, then motioned for Braxton and me to sit.

I sank into the chair beside him, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that we were here at all—at a jewelry broker’s on Fifth Avenue. My pulse hadn’t stopped hammering since we’d stepped inside.

A woman in black and cream suit entered with a silver tray, her movements fluid. Two flutes of champagne sat balanced perfectly on the tray. She placed one in front of each of us with a courteous smile and then stepped out without a word.

Braxton didn’t say anything; he just reached over and rested his hand on my knee under the table, his thumb brushing it in small, steady circles as I dreamily watched the bubbles rise in my glass.

The man I’d seen earlier near the display cases came in next, carrying a large velvet tray. Even from across the room, the diamonds caught the light and threw it around like they were made of ice and fire.

My eyes widened, and Braxton chuckled as the diamonds were placed in front of me.

Amelia leaned in slightly. “Do you have a favorite style, Mrs. Thorin?”

Mrs. Thorin.

I glanced sideways at Braxton, not trusting my voice yet. He grinned at me and nodded toward the tray. “Go on. Pick one.”

My gaze slid across the rows. There were so many to choose from—cushion cut, emerald, oval, round. Some were massive, others more delicate. Amelia explained the cuts, the color grading, the clarity, and that every diamond here was certified using detailed mapping. I only half heard her.

My eyes kept drifting back to the same ring—a marquise-cut diamond, long and tapered like a flame, set on a thin platinum band. It wasn’t the biggest. It wasn’t surrounded by extra stones or wrapped in anything flashy. It was clean. Strong. Stunning in its simplicity.

Braxton’s hand left my knee. He reached forward without hesitation and plucked the ring from the tray, holding it between his thumb and forefinger like he already knew it was the one.

Before I could say a word, he pushed back from his chair and dropped to one knee in front of me.

As I turned to face him, the room disappeared. All I saw was him.

He took my hand and held the ring near the tip of my finger.

“My love has no borders, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Wherever you are, wherever you choose to be, I will be at your side.”

I stared into those pools of golden brown shimmering in the light.

“I didn’t know someone like you could exist,” he went on. “You’re not just beautiful—though, Jesus, Daria…you are. You walk into a room like a ballerina trained in war. Your body is carved from grace and steel, and your stunning blue eyes cut through everything, seeing into my very soul.”

I swallowed hard, barely able to breathe.

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