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“Well, then.” He takes the little red box from my hand. “I’ll open it for you.”
He snaps open the lid, facing it toward me. Nestled in red velvet is my dream engagement ring. A large oval ruby center stone surrounded by a circle of cut diamonds made to look like flower petals. Two smaller oval rubies sit on either side of the center gem, with baguette diamonds on either end to finish the look. The rubies are nestled in silver cups that hold them to the thick band.
A ring I’d pinned to a Pinterest board.
As far as royal engagement rings go, Princess Margaret's is incredibly unique. Her husband-to-be, the Earl of Snowden, Tony, designed the ring. The overall appearance of the ring resembled a rosebud, as Princess Margaret's middle name was Rose.
The ring was one of a kind. It belonged to Princess Margaret. This has to be a replica.
“How did you find time to have this made?” I ask.
“I didn’t.” He stares down at the ring.
“Where did you find such a perfect replica?” I ask.
His eyes rise to meet mine. “I didn’t.”
Our gazes lock.
Is he telling me…
We’re not only to be engaged…
He’s offering me Princess Margaret’s actual ring?
twenty
Damian
The moment I saw my dad lying there, the gaping wound on his forehead, it was clear. My dad needed more help than the Parrish doctor could offer. Greece is wonderful but the medical care can’t rival the States.
Before his accident I was already planning on going back to New York, but now, we would all need to fly together, me, Dad, Lindy, the doctor, and, who could forget, Angel.
Having to be engaged, that’s a hard and fast rule the family has had since the seventies.
I had limited time, but I knew I needed a ring before we returned to the Village. Only fiancées are allowed to stay in your townhome with you, and after her little stunt hanging off the balcony, I couldn’t stomach the idea of her out of my sight.
I had her glam team comb through her social profiles and print out anything that could help. One of her idea boards had several photos of the diamond-studded ruby band. I knew it had to be the one she coveted most.
Princess Margaret’s ring.
It had been purchased at a Christie’s auction in 2006. I had my guys find the owner. Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. I had it hand-delivered by a security company, flown in from the UK, arriving just hours before we boarded. Knowing it wouldn’t be complete without its red leather Bachman box, I went to our old house, carefully looking through my mother’s things until I found hers.
I set Princess Margaret’s ring inside the black velvet, then snapped the lid shut. The little red box has been in my pocket ever since.
Waiting for a special moment.
Now is that moment. It needs to be on her finger. Where it belongs.
I pluck the band from the folds of the velvet cushion. I take her trembling hand in mine. Slip the band onto the ring finger of her left hand.
“It’s hers. It’s the ring,” I say. “And now it belongs to you.”
She stares up at me, shock all over her pretty face. “No way. No way.” She holds out her hand, fingers shaking, like she’s scared to touch it.
“Go ahead.” I twist the band, letting the baguette diamonds catch the light. They sparkle as they move. It’s quite a ring. She has good taste. “It won’t bite.”
She just stares.
