"I'm picking out the ring today. Grandmother says the groom has to select it personally."
Leander's voice crackles through the phone at seven in the morning, bright with an enthusiasm that makes my stomach turn.
"She seems like a classic kind of woman, don't you think?" he asks, and the warmth in his voice is unmistakable. "Elegant. Understated. God, Ves, I think I might actually like her."
The words land in my chest like shrapnel.
"You should have support," I hear myself say. "Ring selection is important, and you'll need someone who understands what Grandmother expects."
"You'd come all the way to Vermont just to help me pick jewelry?"
"I have documents to review at the Kincaid estate anyway." The lie flows smoothly. "Trust provisions that need examination before the engagement moves forward. I might as well make myself useful while I'm there."
"That would actually be amazing, Ves. Thank you."
He sounds genuinely grateful, and the guilt twists deeper.
The truth is simpler and far more dangerous than sisterly devotion: I cannot stand the thought of him being alone with her.
***
The jeweler sits tucked into a converted Victorian building.
Iolanthe arranged for Elowen to meet us here, insisting the bride must be present to ensure proper sizing and to witness her groom's devotion firsthand.
I settle into a leather chair near the window while Leander fumbles through options at the main counter.
"What about this one?" He holds up a ring with a center stone the size of a small grape. "It's impressive, right?"
"It's certainly large," Elowen replies, her voice carrying measured politeness. "Though perhaps something more understated would suit me better."
"Right, right, of course." Leander sets the ring down and reaches for another. "What about platinum? I've heard platinum is timeless."
"Platinum is lovely."
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
I watch her from across the room, cataloging every microexpression she's trained herself to hide.
But I know she's performing. Every word, every gesture, every response is designed to satisfy Iolanthe's expectations.
Leander continues his fumbling examination of the display.
Iolanthe observes from a wingback chair near the entrance, her expression radiating the particular satisfaction of a general watching troops execute maneuvers according to plan.
"This one," Leander finally announces. "Platinum band, princess cut, elegant but not ostentatious. What do you think, Elowen?"
The ring catches light—brilliant, beautiful, utterly impersonal. A piece of jewelry that could belong to any bride, purchased by any groom.
I would have chosen the sapphire in the corner case. The one that would match her eyes when she's thinking.
Elowen nods her approval. "It's perfect, Leander."
But I see her hand tremble as she extends it toward him, and the slight shake in her fingers tells me everything her words do not.
She's terrified. She's trapped. And she's wearing a mask so flawless that no one in this room except me can see the woman suffocating beneath it.
"Excellent choice," Iolanthe pronounces, rising from her chair. "The Armitage family has always valued restraint. Your instincts do you credit, Leander."
"Thank you, Grandmother." His relief is palpable. "I wanted to get it right, you know? This is important, and I didn't want to disappoint anyone."
"You haven't disappointed anyone, dear boy." Iolanthe's thin smile holds no warmth. "Now, shall we return to the estate? I believe there are dinner arrangements to finalize."
The afternoon bleeds into evening with excruciating slowness.
Leander's chartered plane departs at seven, carrying him back to Manhattan with visible relief at escaping Iolanthe's orbit.
Grandmother retires to her guest quarters shortly after.
I find Elowen in her grandfather's study.
She told me about this room once—the one place in the Kincaid estate her father never enters because the old man's presence still lingers too heavily in the leather and pipe tobacco and books that haven't been moved since his death.
I shouldn't know where it is. I shouldn't be climbing the back staircase of a house that isn't mine, searching for a woman who belongs to my brother.
But I cannot spend another hour alone with the image of Leander holding up rings for her, his voice warm with affection that felt like acid in my throat.
The door is unlocked. Elowen looks up from the window seat when I enter, unsurprised, as if she'd been waiting.
"You found me," she says quietly.
"I needed to check on you." The words come out pathetic. "Today was difficult. I wanted to make sure you were managing."
Managing. As if she's a quarterly report I'm reviewing for inconsistencies.
"That's very considerate of you," Elowen says.
Tell her watching him choose platinum when she deserves sapphires made you want to overturn the display case and drag her out of there.
"The selection process seemed to go smoothly," I manage instead.
Coward.
Her expression shifts.
"You looked like you were attending your own funeral today."
"I felt like it."
I cross the room and sink onto the window seat beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"Every time he held up another ring, every time you smiled and nodded like it mattered, I wanted to cross that room and tell him he had no idea who you actually are."
"Vesper—"
"What if I can't stop this?"
The words tear out of me before I can contain them, jagged and desperate.
"What if all our planning amounts to nothing, and I have to watch you walk down an aisle toward him while everything inside me—"
I break off, my composure finally cracking under the weight of a day spent pretending I wasn't dying inside.
Elowen's hand finds mine in the darkness. Her fingers lace through mine, and the contact sends warmth flooding through my chest.
"Why did you really come here tonight, Vesper?"
The question is soft. Careful. The kind of question that sounds simple until you realize it's asking for everything.
"I told you. I needed to check—"
"No." She shakes her head gently, cutting off the deflection before it can fully form. "Not what you told me. Tell me what's actually true."
She's looking at me with quiet patience, like she already knows the answer and is simply waiting for me to find the courage to say it.
"You know why," I manage.
"I want to hear you say it."
The words hang between us, an invitation wrapped in vulnerability.
All I have to do is speak. Three words, or even one. A sentence that acknowledges what we both already know.
But my jaw locks. The walls I've spent thirty-two years constructing slam into place with a force that surprises even me.
"I can't," I say flatly. "Not while everything is still—"
"Still what?" She tilts her head, studying me. "Still uncertain?"
"Saying it makes it real."
The admission scrapes out of me like glass.
"And if it's real, then I have to do something about it. I have to choose, and I don't know how to choose without—"
I stop myself. The sentence has too many endings, all of them terrifying.
Elowen is quiet for a long moment. Then she rises from the window seat, and the distance she puts between us feels deliberate. Measured.
"I'm not asking you to choose," she says, her voice gentle but somehow final. "I'm just asking you to be honest with me. And if you can't do that yet, it's fine."
She trails off.
"Elowen—"
"It's late."
She moves toward the door, and her composure is flawless—no anger, no accusation, just a quiet withdrawal that feels worse than either.
"You should get some rest before driving back tomorrow. It's a long way to Manhattan."