Page 9 of Virtuous Lies

She sighs, her exasperation palpable. “I don’t know, Bianca.” She hands me the small box with little finesse. “Well”—she hurries me when I make no move to open it—“let us see.”

I look at the box and then back at her. “What if I don’t want it? What if it’s a finger?”

Fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, my mother groans. “Who would send you severed body parts, child?”

“I don’t know,” I argue defensively. “Maybe my new fiancè?”

“Ew,” Cat complains.

I rip away the packaging and peek inside.

“Well?” My mother strains to see.

“It’s nothing.” I hold it in my lap.

“Nothing?” she repeats.

“A face cream I ordered online.” Up until today, I never held back on the truth. I had no need to. But now I can’t seem to stop. My lies fall from my mouth as easily as I breathe.

Sliding off my bed, I place the box on my dresser, forcing a yawn. “I’m actually pretty tired. I’m ready to crash.” I look at my mother and sister pointedly.

Caterina leaves without argument, kissing my cheek before traipsing off to her bedroom.

“Why doesn’t it have the sender’s details on it?” My mother pauses at the door.

I mumble incoherently. “I’ll be sure to send them an email and ask.”

I rush toward the bedroom door the moment she leaves, closing it behind her. I click the lock quietly into place, plastering my back against the wood.

Rushing back toward my dresser, the ring box mocks me from the tissue paper it’s stuffed within. Pulling the card out first, I let my gaze track over Vincent’s severe writing.

“I’m confident you’ll find this to your liking.”

“I’m confident you’ll find this to your liking,”I mimic petulantly. “Asshat.”

I reach for the ring box as though it’s covered in lava. Afraid it will burn me. The remnants of Vincent’s evil nature pouring through, cursing me for an eternity. Instead, the blue velvet is smooth under my fingers, and I rub the material. It soothes something within me, creating a layer of ease inside my stomach with the tranquility of touch.

Opening the small box, I want to laugh at the absurdity of me opening my own ring box. No proposal, just the delivery of a ring in discreet packaging.

Am I supposed to slide it onto my own fucking finger, too?

I gasp aloud, my hand cupping my mouth to stop the sound.

Inside sits one of the prettiest rings I’ve ever seen, both delicate and timeless. A pavé-set halo surrounding a princess-cut diamond. It’s ornate and everything I would choose for myself. It’s expensive too—more than some people earn in an entire year expensive.

I’m afraid to touch it. The absurdity of this being mine makes me feel like a child playing dress-up.

Pulling it from the security of the cushioning, I hold the band between my thumb and forefinger, bringing it close to my face. It glitters and shines, and I gulp down the lump in my throat. This must have cost a fortune. Considering the way in which Vincent was forced to marry me, I hadn’t even contemplated an engagement ring.

Glancing around my room, my anxiety convincing me my mother is hiding in the shadows, I slide the perfection of the ring onto my finger, biting into my bottom lip at how exquisite it looks.

I turn my hand this way and that, taking in the way the diamond catches different forms of light.

My phone beeps, and I startle at the sound. Yanking the ring off my finger, I tuck it back into the box. Scrambling to my feet, I place the box on my bedside table and retrieve my phone.

Unknown: Sufficient?

Sufficient?

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