The Ring He Was Putting on My Finger, the Money He Was Sending to Her Chapter 01
So I was curled up on Dylan Foster’s lap, picking out engagement rings, when word hit that the Morgan heiress Tiffany Morgan was back.
Our socialite group chat was roasting the former queen bee over her fall from grace.
I pecked him under the chin. “Tiffany’s back. Don’t you need to help her?”
He played with my fingers lazily and snorted.
“Business is business. Why would I help her? Baby, don’t paint me as that kind of simp.”
I relaxed. After all, the Morgans had dumped him for being broke back in the day. With his pride, he’d never go back.
I went to change into a cocktail dress. When I came out, Dylan was standing on the balcony with his back to me, smoke curling from his fingers.
On a whim, I picked up his phone from the couch.
A bank transfer notification lit up the screen.
[Card ending in 8888 was just charged $5,000,000. Reference: Hillcrest Buyback.]
The cold glow of the screen burned my eyes.
***
“What are you looking at?” His low voice came from behind, a little raspy from the cigarette.
My fingers froze for a second, the numbers still reflected in my pupils.
After a few seconds, I pressed the lock button very calmly and placed the phone face-down on the cushion.
“Nothing.”
I turned to face him.
There was still a flicker of something dark in his eyes, but the moment he met my gaze, he switched it out for the usual warm, gentle look.
“Just checking the schedule for tomorrow’s bridal fitting,” I said.
Dylan stubbed out his cigarette and walked toward me with his long legs.
He smelled of smoke and the chilly night air, and wrapped his arms around me like it was the most natural thing.
“Let the assistants handle that boring stuff.” He rested his chin on my head and gave a little reassuring nuzzle. “I’m clearing my whole schedule tomorrow. I’ll be with you all day.”
I leaned against his warm chest, listening to his heart still beating steadily.
The question “What’s with the five million?” got stuck in my throat.
I closed my eyes and swallowed it, along with five years of my youth.
“Okay,” I whispered.
The next morning, a light rain fell over Riverside.
Dylan, who almost never skipped work emails at breakfast, actually peeled a hard-boiled egg for me and put it on my plate.
When we got to the most exclusive bridal shop in the city, the manager was waiting outside with her team.
“Miss Davis, the three gowns you ordered have been air-shipped.”
I was whisked into the VIP room.
Dylan sat on the couch and flipped open a magazine.
“Go try them on. I’ll wait here.” He gave me a warm smile, his eyes full of affection.
The first dress was a ridiculously intricate French lace ballgown with a train.
The fitting took forever. Several assistants carefully tightened the corset back.
Just as I was about to put on the veil, a phone rang sharply from the other room.
Through the gap in the curtain, I saw Dylan shoot to his feet.
He didn’t even notice the magazine fall to the carpet. He strode to the window, cupped the phone, and spoke in a low, tense voice, his back ramrod straight.
When I stepped out in the gown, he was already grabbing his suit jacket from the chair.
“Dylan?” I said softly.
He turned and looked at me for half a second.
No surprise. No compliment. Just barely concealed anxiety.
“A friend has an emergency.” He buttoned his jacket quickly as he headed for the door, not even walking over to give me a hug.
“I’ll go check on her and be right back. Pick whichever one you like. Put it on my tab.”
The VIP room door clicked shut behind him.
The manager stood there holding the veil, looking awkward.
“Miss Davis, I’m so sorry…”
“It’s fine,” I said, staring at my over-dressed, ridiculous reflection in the mirror. “I’ll wait.”
The dress was heavy and tight, making it hard to breathe.
The clock on the wall ticked monotonously.
The staff changed my tea for the fourth time. It had gone completely cold, a thin film forming on the surface.
I checked my phone.
Eight o’clock at night.
He said he’d be right back, but I’d waited twelve hours in that temperature-controlled room.
A dull ache spread through my lower stomach. My face went pale, and I doubled over, gripping the dress.
Cold sweat beaded on my forehead.
I opened my contacts with shaking fingers and called Dylan.
The long, empty ringing echoed in the silent VIP room.
Right before it would have gone to voicemail, someone picked up.
“Dylan, my belly—”
“Hello?”
The voice that came through wasn’t Dylan’s deep one. It was a woman’s, light and teasing.
“Oh, it’s Claire.”
My breath caught.
Tiffany Morgan.
“Dylan can’t talk right now.”
There was a soft clink of metal on the other end.
Tiffany laughed casually, her tone dripping with obvious showing-off.
“That chandelier at Hillcrest is huge. Dylan’s terrified it’ll come crashing down on me, so he’s literally on a ladder, hanging it himself.”
