Page 1 of The Ring
Chapter 1
Cornelia
Paris has been good to me—the food, the art, the shopping, especially the shopping. I find it almost impossible to feel sad in Paris; it’s like having dopamine pumped directly into my veins. But above all else, Paris gave me an escape. An escape from reality, from that horrible night that still haunts me, and, most importantly, from him—the person I loved more than anything in the world. The one I used to daydream about marrying and building a life with. But instead of slipping a ring on my finger, he stabbed a knife into my back.
Actually, calling it a knife is generous. What he did felt more like being stabbed withallthe cutlery sets they sell at Harrods.
But as much as I’ve wanted to keep running away, to bury myself in the blissful distractions of France, my real life isn’t in Paris. It’s in London—at uni, with my friends, my family, and the thousand other responsibilities waiting for me.
That’s why I find myself standing outside Annabel’s, preparing for what was meant to be my surprise welcome-home brunch. Now it’s just a regular one, thanks to my best friendAnnabelle, who ruined the surprise earlier. She figured I’d appreciate knowing, considering this will be the first time I see TJ since our breakup. Or at least, that’s what all our friends think.
The truth? TJ and I have seen each other twice since then, but neither of us has spoken a word about it. It’s like we’ve made an unspoken pact to avoid the subject entirely—the reason for our breakup, the aftermath, all of it. I can’t speak for him, but I know why I avoid it: the more people know, the more real it becomes. And I can barely handle it as it is.
Taking a deep breath, I catch my reflection in the window as I walk up. I look absolutely stunning. I’d be lying if I said that part of my choice wasn’t influenced by the fact that I’m going to see TJ. Black satin top and skirt from YSL—TJ always loved me in black—paired with black flats, also from YSL. A Valentino red wool coat for the January chills. A matching Mini Kelly with gold hardware.
As for jewellery: diamond studs with delicate chains from Jemma Wynne, and my everyday ring—a Jessica McCormack 0.25-carat diamond button-back ring with blackened gold that I never take off. I wear it religiously on the ring finger of my right hand and feel completely naked without it. On the index finger of my left hand, I wear the Triple Take diamond ring, also from Jessica McCormack.
I remind myself, as I always do, that I am the best thing in any room I walk into—except when Annabelle is there; then it’s equal. And with that thought, I head inside.
The Garden Room is like a whimsical garden, currently semi-packed with brunchers, and in the corner, I spot The Heptad Society—that’s what the tabloids call our group. When they first started writing about us as a whole, they used a name we didn’t like. One night, all very drunk, we decided to comeup with a “better one” and shout it to the paparazzi to use instead. And it stuck.
While it’s a fun—shameful—anecdote given there’s footage of us doing that, it’s also a good reminder to be careful with what you say to the press, because it could follow you around forever.
They’re at our usual table, set with eight dinnerware places, tucked away in the back corner. Technically, there are seven of us, but I’ve always hated odd numbers, except for the number three, but only in a few things. Back in boarding school, I convinced everyone it was better to get a table for eight by rambling on about some Feng Shui principle I made up on the spot.
I glance around the table. I don’t see him. As I get closer, it becomes clear—he’s not here. I’m a little disappointed, but perhaps itisfor the best. Maybe this will be easier than I thought. Maybe, if I’m lucky, we’ll keep missing each other until the tightness in my chest, the one that feels like it’s choking the very air out of me, subsides. Maybe, by then, I’ll be able to stand in the same room as him and feel nothing for him.
I reach the table, and all my friends stand to greet me. Annabelle is the first to pull me into a hug, buzzing with energy.
“Hi!” I say, my voice bubbling with happiness. She has that effect on people—she infects you with her energy.
“Hi! I’ve missed you so much; you have no idea. Never go away again,never!” my best friend squeals, squeezing me tighter.
“I can’t promise that,” I counter playfully. “But how about next time I take you with me?”
She smiles. “Deal.”
Annabelle Pieret is stunning—blonde hair, brown eyes, subtle French features, five-foot-eight, and always looking likea model straight off an Isabel Marant runway, which, by the way, is her favourite brand. I’d be jealous if she weren’t my best friend.
Next to her is my usual chair, where I leave my bag and coat. I move them both a few times until they’re positionedjustright, then walk over to greet the rest of the group.
“Hello, beautiful,” Lucian Bearnardet greets me, pulling me into a hug. “Love the outfit.” He always compliments me.
“Thanks.” I grin, briefly losing myself in his presence and his faint smell of chlorine, which I oddly like.
Lucian is impossible to miss. Six-foot-four, the tallest of the boys, muscular, black-eyed, dark-haired, rich brown-skinned—tragically handsome, tragically gay. Once an Olympian swimmer, now retired to study at Central Saint Martins, like Annabelle, who is in fashion design, but he is in fashion business. Despite it, he keeps his style simple, like today, with a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans.
“Long time no see, stranger,” West Pieret interjects, snapping me out of the trance Lucian had put me in. I hug him tightly. Six-foot-three, sandy brown hair, amber eyes. He’s also Annabelle’s older brother and the reason I met TJ. They are best friends.
“Hey, don’t forget about me!” Laurie Winthrop pops between West and me. I immediately launch into his arms, burying my face in his light-blue denim jacket that matches his jeans. “My brother was a twat for letting you go,” he whispers in my ear, and I can’t help but let out a little laugh.
Laurie is TJ’s younger brother, and I have to admit, he’s incredibly handsome. Good looks clearly run in the family. He is six-foot-one, with almost black brown hair, light green kind eyes, brilliant, and the kind of person who can light up any room.
Before TJ and I were a couple, Laurie asked me out, but hewas a year younger than me, and that was around the same time my mother started dating men much younger than her. And if there’s one hill I’ll die on, it’s avoiding becoming her. So, I turned him down.
Eventually, any romantic feelings he might have had for me died and, like a phoenix, were reborn as a sibling-like love. I love him like a brother, and he’s one of the friendships I cherish the most.
Sometimes, I think maybe I made a mistake—maybe all this time I fell for the wrong brother—but sadly, we don’t choose who we love. And I’ve never seen Laurie that way.
