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I grin wide. “Yes.”
“I mean, I paid a pretty penny for you. I guess you could say you kind of have to marry me.”
I pretend like I’m shocked at his words. “Hey, you do not own me.”
He smiles, his brow rising a bit. “I never got my refund, so I kind of think I do.”
I slap his bicep playfully. “Well, what are you going to do with your property tonight?”
“Oh, I have lots of naughty ideas.”
He stands and slides the ring on my finger.
I love the way it feels on my hand. He may not own me in a monetary sense, but he owns my heart and soul. I couldn’t have written a better ending myself.
Journalism's first obligation is to the truth.
And the truth is—I love him.
