It was our fifth anniversary. Also my twenty-fifth birthday.

Roman had been planning this for months — I knew that much from the way our mutual friends had been acting, the careful way they'd herded me into the hotel's private suite, the look on everyone's face when I walked through the door. The room smelled like peonies. There was a velvet box, and inside it, twelve pigeon's blood rubies from Mogok, arranged in a circle, so deeply red they looked like they were lit from within.

"A year ago," Roman said, dropping to one knee, "you said you'd marry whoever gave you rubies like these. One for every month." He was smiling the way he only smiled when he was certain of something. "I've been patient."

Someone in the back row had already started recording. Someone else had a bag of confetti ready. The room was holding its breath.

He held up the ring.

I let him slide it onto my finger.

The room erupted — confetti, cheers, someone crying happy tears in the corner. Roman stood and pulled me close and pressed a kiss to my temple, and for exactly four minutes I believed that five years had been worth it.

Then his phone rang.

I felt him go still. He looked at the screen.

The smile disappeared.

He stepped back — just a half step, the way you do when you need to take a call you shouldn't have to take. Then he slid the ring off my finger and closed his fist around it.

"Give me a minute," he said. Not to me. To the room.

He stepped into the hallway. Through the closed door, even with the room going quiet, I could hear Scarlett Holloway's voice — clipped, furious, the volume of someone who expected to be listened to:

"Who gave you permission to propose? I gave you three days. Three. And you spent them getting engaged without telling me? Where does that put me, Roman? Where does that actually put me?"

He stayed out there for eleven minutes. I know because I was counting.

When he came back, the confetti was still on the floor.

He crossed the room without looking at anyone and picked up the velvet box. He set it on the table beside me.

"I have to go."

"Roman—"

"She didn't know," he said. "I should have told her first. It wasn't fair to her." A pause. "I'll make this up to you."

He left.

That night, Scarlett posted on Instagram.

A photo of twenty-four sapphires — two dozen, twice what I'd been given — arranged on custom velvet. On her ring finger: a bespoke diamond ring, the kind where you're the only person in the world who gets to own it.

Her caption: Blue over red any day. Decided to forgive someone for a lapse in judgment. You're welcome.

Roman liked the post within seconds.

Thank you for your generosity, he commented.

The photo flooded with reactions immediately — hundreds, mostly people I recognized, people who were also in that hotel suite when the confetti fell.

I read the comments for a while. Then I went to my contacts.

I removed Scarlett first. Then every mutual friend who'd been in that room. Then I scrolled through to make sure I hadn't missed anyone.

My phone buzzed with a new notification.

A message from a number I recognized but hadn't expected: Adrian Pemberton, the senior I'd worked under briefly at my first real job — my mentor, though we both pretended the word was too formal for what we were. He'd changed his profile picture to match mine. We hadn't had matching photos. Until now.

I did that on purpose, he wrote. In case you were wondering.

I stared at the screen.

Quinn, he wrote. I think you know what I mean.

I did know. I'd known for a while, the way you know something you've decided not to act on.

Thank you, I wrote back. I know what you mean, and I'm grateful. But I'm not ready for anything like that. I've just accepted the overseas offer — London. I need to focus on something that belongs to me.

The response took a few minutes.

I support that completely. And if you need anything — I'm here.

I stared at his profile picture for a moment. Then I put the phone face down and started packing.

Five years of living in an apartment where everything belonged to Roman. My clothes, my toiletries, a box of books. That was the full accounting of what was mine.

It fit into two bags.

I left that night.

I was heading to the hotel pool when they found me.

Two of Roman's friends — people I'd known for three years, who'd been in that suite when the confetti fell and didn't say a single word when he left — materialized in the corridor with the particular energy of people who've been sent to retrieve something.

"Quinn, hey. Didn't expect you to still be here." One of them smiled like we were running into each other at a coffee shop. "Roman just finished sorting things out with Scarlett — he's throwing a little party upstairs to celebrate. You should come. You're still on the list."

"I'm going to the pool."

"Come on." He reached for my arm. "It's just a party. Don't make it weird."

I pulled back. "I'm not making anything weird. We broke up. That's final."

"Right, right." He did the kind of nod that meant he didn't believe me at all. "The pool can wait. Scarlett's actually pretty chill once she's in a good mood. You guys could probably clear the air—"

"No."

I pushed past them and pressed the elevator button.

The doors were almost closed when I heard Scarlett's voice behind me.

She and Roman were coming down the corridor together — him in a fresh suit jacket, her in something that caught the light when she moved, the twenty-four sapphires glittering at her throat and wrist and the custom diamond ring catching every overhead beam.

She was already smiling when she saw me.

"Quinn." The smile widened. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

"I'm not staying."

"Of course not." She moved closer, unhurried, and took my hand in both of hers — the ring side deliberately pressing into my palm. The gems bit into my skin. I kept my face still.

"You understand, don't you?" she said. "There are some things Roman just — needs to handle a certain way. You've always been so good about giving him space. I really admire that about you."

I pulled my hand free. A thin line of red crossed my palm where the prong had caught.