The thing no one tells you about proposing is that it isn't just a question. It's a logistical operation, a full-scale emotional reconnaissance, a test of one's tolerance for velvet boxes and fluorescent lighting and the subtle, suffocating scent of corporate jewelry counters.
If I had known really known what I was getting into, I would have hired a consultant. Or maybe a private investigator. Or at the very least, Helena.
But no. This was supposed to be personal, secret, and above all: mine.
Two months. That's how long until Elara came home from Paris, two months of anticipation and separation and time zones that made romance feel like an exercise in scheduling as much as sentiment. And me? I spent the first two weeks telling myself I wasn't nervous at all. I was Amara Lyselle heiress, soon-to-be CEO, survivor of media scandals and boarding school. I could handle a little existential anxiety.
