The mangled sheet of paper buried in the front pocket of my slacks burned a hole into it.
I could practically feel it scorching through the fabric, searing my skin.
“For fuck’s sake, this place is such a drag.” Oliver breezed past the glass counters of the boutique jewelry shop, stopping in front of an antique emerald necklace that must have cost a cool ten mil. Thick glass barricaded it. “Why does all jewelry look the same?” He released a provocative yawn, his burgundy suit sewn to his body, all swagger. “It’s bland.”
“What more do you need?” Rom chuckled, leaning forward and squinting at a pair of earrings he was one-hundred percent going to buy for his wife. “A cock-shaped bracelet?”
“For instance.” Oliver shrugged. “A little diversity wouldn’t hurt.”
He drummed his fingers over the display glass, surveying the luxurious jewelry store. Tiny, exclusive, and only open by appointment.
It displayed some of the most expensive engagement rings in the world.
Better get it over with.
I tugged out the wrinkled paper and smoothed it over my arm, trying hard to stare at the list without setting it ablaze.
Pear cut.
20 carats.
$1.8 million+.
White diamond.
Thin band.
Please, also be aware that I do not wish to have anything that is not custom-made.
For further instructions, you are welcome to reach my cell.
— Eileen
Bile rose up my throat, but I ignored it. The promise to Dad. Mom’s pleas.
It could only ever come to this.
A suited, middle-aged woman approached Ollie, her hands folded together at her stomach. “Are you searching for something for that someone special, sir?”
Rom answered for him, “If Oliver had to buy jewelry for every person he saw, you’d be out of stock. The man has distributed more protein than a butcher shop.”
The woman’s nose scrunched up.
Beside her, Oliver cackled, swinging an arm around Rom’s shoulder.
I ignored them both, marching to the jeweler behind the glass counter, my Oxford shoes slapping the porcelain tiles. “I need one of these.”
I discarded the paper on the counter between us, hoping it would fall to the floor and spontaneously combust.
No such luck.
The sweaty, stout man leveled the list to his face, squinting behind his reading glasses. “Does this say two carats?”
“Twenty,” I corrected. “Between one-point-eight and two-point-two million dollars, please.”
He gulped.
Any other zip code, and the insurance alone on this sale would build him another house.
“Ah, yes, sir.” He turned toward his office. “Let me show you a few of our options…”
“No need.” I waved a hand in his face, checking my Philippe Patek. “I don’t need to see it. Just as long as it ticks all the boxes, you can bag it and give me the insurance paperwork.” Pause. “I’ll need the certificate, too.”
Eileen seemed like a stickler for such things, just as much as I was. It should have made her more relatable, but it didn’t.
I found that trait tedious and tiresome.
Was that how people—re: Fae—saw me?
The jeweler dropped the tweezers he was holding, his mouth agape.
He blinked. “You don’t want to see the two-million-dollar engagement ring you’re about to purchase?”
“Did I stutter?” I scowled. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”
“Excuse our friend here.” Ollie laughed, sliding next to me. “He’s being strong-armed into marrying the human answer to a 1040 form.”
I shot him a glare. “You haven’t even met her.”
“You said she reminds you of yourself.” He pouted at me with naked pity. “One must conclude she isn’t the life of the party.”
One needs to ask God for forgiveness for being a manwhore, and my job is to arrange that meeting between them.
Unfortunately, Buddhists didn’t do violence.
Buddhists that have never met Farrow Ballantine, that is.
“We’re missing the Frestone Agency Art Auction.” I tapped my watch, turning back to the jeweler. “Just pack up something. Do it fast.”
“Why are we even going?” Romeo gestured for one of the employees in the store to wrap up the necklace he’d eyed for Dallas. “The art there is subpar. Always has been.”
“And the pussy is nonexistent.” Oliver ran a hand down his face. “The average age there is one hundred and two. Even I have my limits.”
“You always said Frestone’s art is where good taste goes to die.” Romeo raised a brow. “Why the change of heart?”
I watched the perplexed jeweler slide a black velvet square into a crème satin pouch.
“I have a piece I want from there.” He handed it to me.
In return, I slid the black Amex card his way.
Romeo paused. “A piece of what— Shit?”
“A replica of Da Vinci’s Salvator Mundi.”
“What?” Oliver choked on his saliva, then proceeded to slap his own back. “You’re buying a replica? Next thing you’ll tell me is you buy knockoff Prada and Gucci from the back of a truck.”
Now was not the time to admit Celeste Ayi owned some limited-edition Hermès bags of dubious origin.
She’d bought them out of a garage run by a former luxury department store associate, who’d insisted she had a good hookup.
I intended to take her secret to the grave. Spilling the beans meant entering said grave earlier than necessary.
“That painting is horrendous.” Romeo collected his bag. “I’m a fan of Da Vinci, but our boy Salvi looks like he has full-blown cleavage.”
Oliver put a hand to his chest. “I honestly get a little turned on every time I see this painting.”
I flicked his forehead. “You get turned on every time you see The Scream.”
He snapped his fingers, pointing at me. “Hey. There’s an O-shaped mouth in that one. Perfect for a blowie.”
I rolled my eyes, plucking the card and bag from the counter. “You two know nothing about art. Let’s go.”
“I can’t believe you are dragging us to this shithole.” Oliver shook his head as he followed me out the store, Romeo utterly emotionless at his heels. “The things I do for true friendship.”
