Nestled in the ring box is a blood-red ruby, hideously large, positioned with four prongs on a thin gold band.

The crowd rushes forward to get a look.

“Oh, how original!” Diana exclaims.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Collette adds.

Eugene perks up at their interest. “It is quite rare, an heirloom that dates back to the French monarchy. It’s rumored this stone once belonged to Marie Antionette.”

Oh Emmett. You could have been more subtle than that…

I don’t move to retrieve the ring, so my grandmother steps forward to pluck it from the box and slide it onto my ring finger. It doesn’t fit. The band is too loose and the stone is so heavy it slips to the side—a bad omen if there ever were one.

“It’s…large. I’ll give him that,” my grandmother murmurs under her breath.

I can tell she doesn’t approve, and it’s obvious why.

To everyone else here, this appears to be a sweet gesture from my fiancé, but it’s not. I can’t stand the sight of the gem, and it doesn’t help that the rest of my night is spent holding out my hand so others can inspect it. I smile at their compliments and do my best to seem in awe of it, but the moment I escape back to my room after the party has ended, I slide it off my finger and let it clatter onto my silver jewelry tray.

It stays there day in and day out, never worn. I half expect my grandmother to insist I wear it, for show if nothing else, but she never mentions it. Eventually, Margaret or Jacobs nestles it neatly back in its black velvet box for safekeeping.

If I could return it to Leclerc & Co., I would.

When people inquire about it, I say I had to send it away to be resized. No one questions my story.

Short of his public display, Emmett and I haven’t seen or talked to each other since the morning after the St. John’s fundraiser in New York. I’m not absolutely certain he’s still in Boston. I refuse to look him up on social media, and the same goes for his brother and any of their other St. John’s friends. If Collette brings him up at work, I’m good at evading questions.

Winter sets in around the city, and my light cashmere wraps are replaced with thick wool coats and Canada Goose jackets. It snows the first week of December, and I trudge through the slush-covered sidewalks on my way to a public lecture given by Henri Zerner, professor emeritus of art history at Harvard. Zerner wrote Renaissance Art in France: The Invention of Classicism, which I read as an undergraduate student. I still have my worn copy tucked into my bookshelf, filled with annotations. In my world, Zerner is a celebrity, and though he retired from teaching in 2015 after educating students for 42 years, I’m not surprised the university has asked him back for their public lecture series.