The ring stayed on my dresser for three days.
I didn't touch it.
Didn't wear it.
Didn't even open the case again.
But I didn't throw it away either.
I told myself that meant I still had control.
That as long as I didn't slip it on my finger, I was still free.
But freedom, I was starting to learn, was a story we told ourselves to feel less caged.
Ethan didn't push.
He didn't call. Didn't show up at my door. Didn't flood me with texts.
He let silence do the work.
And it did.
Because his silence wasn't absence. It was presence disguised. A pressure I could feel in every breath, every glance from coworkers, every reminder that this man didn't need to chase me.
He already owned the world I lived in.
At work, his name was everywhere—on email headers, on policy changes, on executive memos. Suddenly people who used to ignore me were smiling, overly polite. Too polite.
They knew.
I was "her." The girl Ethan Hart had chosen. The one he sent his mother's ring to. The one he hadn't denied in front of the board when someone asked the question no one else dared speak aloud.
"She's just a personal matter," Ethan had said, his voice calm, final.
Not girlfriend. Not fiancée.
A personal matter.
It should've stung. It should've felt dehumanizing. But somehow, the way he said it…
It made my skin prickle. My throat tighten.
Because in his world, a personal matter didn't mean less.
It meant untouchable.
He didn't need to define me. He just made it known:
I was his.
And no one—not HR, not the board, not the world—was allowed to say otherwise.
One evening, I walked into my office and found a file waiting on my desk. Inside: a formal promotion letter. Salary increase. Relocation package. Assistant director title.
No note.
No signature.
Just a small black post-it stuck to the back.
"Be ready. I'm building something. I want you in it." — E"
Not for you.
Not with you.
In it.
Like a piece on a chessboard.
And I—fool that I was—felt honored to be moved.