Page 42 of The Ring
He thinks for a second. “Probably since I met her.”
If you had asked me that, I’d have given the same answer. I can never pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with her because, in my memory, I have always been—since the moment I first saw her when I was eleven and she was ten.
She and Annabelle came with Anthony to tour Edelweiss, since they would be joining the next year. They had dinner with West and I. Cornelia was wearing a diamond necklace that hung too low on her chest and was carrying a bag she could almost fit inside. She looked like she was playing dress-up with her mother’s things.
Still, I remember being speechless most of the night, mesmerised by her—her confidence, her beauty, the way she moved and spoke. It was like seeing the eighth wonder of the world. Maybe that was the moment I fell in love. Or maybe it was when we helped her and Annabelle decorate their dorm room, moving the furniture around a hundred times only for everything to end up in the exact same place. Or when she threw me into the pool with my clothes on, and I climbed out, chased after her, and jumped back in, carrying her with me. Or when she gave me a ring with a sapphire for my birthday—itlooked more like an engagement ring, and the boys teased me about it, but I wore it every day because it was from her. Maybe it was when I lost the ring months later, and we skipped all our classes, searching the entire school for it.
I’ll never know the exact moment I fell in love, but every time I’m with her, it feels like I’m falling all over again.
“And Amelie?” I ask him.
“I was an arsehole with her,” he says, ashamed. “After you and Cornelia got together, I needed to get her out of my mind. Amelie was a pleasant distraction, and she didn’t seem to mind, but…” He shakes his head. “It wasn't right.”
I get it now. While I tried to find girls who looked like Cornelia to avoid the temptation of the real thing, he did the opposite—he found someone who was the antithesis of her. Maybe his way is a little healthier than mine. Not that either of ours is really healthy, but maybe his is a tiny bit better. Like they say, out of sight, out of mind. Not that I could ever get Cornelia completely out of my mind.
“Yes, you were,” I tell him. “But it takes one to know one.”
I know my faults, and I know I’ve been an arsehole plenty of times. I’m an arsehole at least once a week when I bring a new girl home, knowing I have no intention of ever seeing her again after the night passes.
We laugh, and when our laugh fades, he looks at me. “You’re lucky, you know? She loved you. Hell, after everything you put her through, I think she still loves you.” His voice carries a tone I’ve never heard from him before—he sounds envious.
That hits harder than I expected. It’s kind of ironic. He has everything I could ever want—my father’s respect, his pride, a good reputation, and a self-made business. But the thing is, I never really cared for any of that. Sure, it might’ve been nice, but the only thing I ever remembertrulywanting was Cornelia.And now I realise she is the only thing he ever really wanted, too.
“I’m not so sure,” I admit, turning to look for a second at the book in my hands, and running my finger along its leather-bound cover.
I wish I was. I wish I knew she still loves me like I still love her.
It scares me that Cornelia might have developed feelings for Nate. I saw her avoiding him the entire party—and with her, that means something. And now I can’t help wonder if Nate’s feelings might not be entirely one-sided.
He gives me a sympathetic smile.
“You should tell her how you feel,” I say impulsively. This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever said—no one wants to encourage someone to go after the love of their life—but he needs to know in order to move forward. I know he wonders, like I do, probably even more, and I know he won’t do it without my permission, even after everything that happened.
He looks at me like I’ve gone insane. “What?”
Maybe I have.
“I’m not saying it again,” I mutter. “But I know you heard me well enough the first time.”
“Are you sure?” Nate asks, his voice quieter, as if he’s trying to gauge whether I truly mean it.
He probably thinks I’m giving her up. He’s way off.
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean what you think,” I say firmly. “I fucked up, and I know it. But I’m not giving up on her—I’m not giving up on us. But I can’t ignore what happened between you two or the possibility that it might have meant something to her. And as much as I hate it, the most important thing to me is her happiness, even… if it’s not with me.”
I’ll probably regret this because saying it is one thing, but living it is another entirely. While I’m trying to be mature, I’mnot entirely sure that’s how I’d react if I actually saw her with someone else. Losing her for good isn’t just painful—it’s unimaginable. Not because I can’t imagine it, but because it feels like we were always destined to be together in every universe, every timeline, every life. Losing her seems like it’s violating the natural order of things.
Chapter 22
Cornelia
I’m sitting on a bed with my laptop. Not mine of course; I’m on Anthony’s. He doesn’t have the same thing as me about not liking outside clothes in his bed or dirty things. He constantly lies in bed in his outside clothes, sometimes even with shoes. I once even saw him eat an entire meal in bed, including toast with Marmite. How he didn’t feel the crumbs at night, I don’t know.
I’m in his bed because sometimes a girl needs to lie in bed without changing clothes. I could be in any other room, but Anthony is in Germany for business, so I’m not bothering, and he has the biggest bedroom. When my parents divorced and London stopped being their primary residence, he took the master bedroom.
Someone knocks on the door. “Miss Monroe, may I come in?” Nadia asks.
Nadia is one of the maids in my house. Normally, I don’t even bother learning their names because, somehow, whenever my mother is in town, she either scares them off or fires them for any little mistake. So, they don’t tend to last. The maid wholasted the longest was a guy named Marcelo—he made it six months before Anthony fired him after finding out he was, let’s just say, payingextra attentionto “cleaning” my mother’s pipes. I just think my mother doesn’t like other women. Her only female friend is Annabelle’s mother, and I’m pretty sure she shares her disdain for women too. And they are also more like frenemies than actual friends. But now that I think Anthony has essentially banned her from ever coming back to London—or at least to the house—I’m starting to get to know the maid staff.
