I'd planned to bake a cake at home, hide the ring inside, and propose to Les from across the distance—just the two of us on a video call.
I'd even rehearsed the line: "Les, let's get married. We'll do research together for the rest of our lives and grow old together."
What a joke.
I was choking in smoke and flames, clawing to stay alive—and he was across town, surrounded by flowers and applause, celebrating someone else's birthday.
I picked up the ring and closed my fist around it, squeezing until the metal edge bit into my palm.
Then I tossed it into the trash.
Three years of deluded love went with it.
When I turned around, I walked straight into a solid chest.
I looked up and froze.
Les was standing in the doorway—no telling how long he'd been there. His face was dark, his gaze dropping to the ring in the trash, then to the burn on my hand, and whatever shifted behind his eyes, he didn't let it settle into anything I could name.
"You're back." His voice came out dry, almost rough.
I ignored him and stepped sideways to leave.
"Madge, stop." He grabbed my wrist, grip tight enough to hurt. "We need to talk."