There were exactly three reasons I should not have been sitting cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom at one in the morning.
First, I had a meeting at eight with three senior executives who already looked at me like I was one impulsive decision away from buying another island.
Second, I was wearing one of Elara's hoodies instead of actual sleepwear, which meant I smelled faintly like her perfume and poor decision-making.
Third, I had opened the ring box at least fourteen times in the past hour.
Maybe fifteen.
I stared down at the ring in the velvet box resting in my palm and let out a long breath.
It was perfect.
That was, unfortunately, the problem.
The ring was perfect. The woman was perfect. The situation was very much not.
Elara was still in Paris for almost two more months. I was in the United States pretending to be a responsible future CEO while secretly behaving like a lovesick idiot with a luxury stationery addiction and a deeply concerning search history.
