His Fake Ring Has My InitialsChapter 3

And I had. Long before today.

Back when Aaron and I were together, her name would frequently slip from his friends' lips. They would often adopt a hushed, wistful tone whenever they spoke of her.

"If Vicky hadn't left for Europe," they would say, "Aaron wouldn't have become... like this."

I never understood what they meant by "like this." To me, Aaron was a perfect partner. He was emotionally stable, gentle, and in all the years we spent together, we never once had a screaming match. Whenever a conflict arose, he would calmly sit down and analyze the pros and cons with me. If other men tried to pursue me, he would dismiss them with effortless, polite grace.

Once, while having coffee with Hannah, I was listing his virtues when I noticed her expression turn complex.

"You've never had a single fight?" she asked.

"Never," I replied.

"And when that young guy from next door kept asking for your number, Aaron didn't react at all?"

I thought back to that afternoon. "No. We're adults, Hannah. Why would he get upset over a kid?"

Hannah sighed and turned her phone screen toward me. She had been texting her own boyfriend: Just grabbing coffee with Vera. Some guy just tried to get her number.

The indicator showed the boyfriend was typing, erasing, and typing again. Finally, a message came through: Okay. Come home the second you're done.

A second later, another text popped up: I'm literally going to lose my mind if you don't.

I couldn't help but laugh. "That's not very different from Aaron."

"It's entirely different," Hannah countered gently. "Don't you see, Vera? You two don't fight because Aaron has no sense of possession. He doesn't get jealous. Sometimes, I honestly wonder if he's capable of loving you at all."

She patted my hand. "Anyway, let's not talk about him. Happy birthday, sweetie."

All the way home, Hannah's words echoed in my head.

When I unlocked the door, I found Aaron sitting in the living room, reading the evening paper. On the coffee table sat a birthday cake. It had clearly been sitting out for hours; the frosting was beginning to melt.

Seeing me enter, he smiled. "Happy birthday, Vera. I bought you a new bag. See if you like it."

Normally, regardless of what he bought, I would smile and tell him it was perfect. I never wanted to be the difficult girlfriend. But tonight, with Hannah's words ringing in my ears, a sudden, childish urge took hold of me.

"I don't like it," I said.

In truth, Aaron had immaculate taste. It was exactly the kind of bag I loved.

I stood there, waiting for him to show some flash of anger.

Aaron blinked in surprise, then let out a soft laugh. "Well, looks like my streak of guessing right has ended. What would you prefer instead? I'll get you whatever you want."

My voice rose, thin and sharp. "Don't you even know what I like?"

The words left my mouth, and instant regret washed over me. It was the first time I had ever raised my voice at him.

Aaron fell silent for a moment. He folded his newspaper, his expression returning to its usual, calm composure. "I'm sorry. I should have paid closer attention to your preferences. I'll make sure to get it right next time. For now, why don't you keep the bag anyway? I have an urgent meeting to attend, so I have to head out. I hope you understand."

As if to prove his point, his phone began to vibrate. He answered it, and as he listened, his expression darkened in a way I had never seen before. It must have been a severe crisis.

He gave me a brief nod, ignoring the melting cake, and turned toward the door.

For some reason, I called out to his retreating back. "Aaron. Someone asked for my number at the cafe today."

The words felt pathetic the moment they left my lips. Our unspoken rule had always been to never interrupt each other’s work.

Aaron paused, his shoulders tightening. I could tell he was incredibly stressed. But out of sheer, polite habit, he gave me a measured response.

"That's nice. Have a good time."

But his voice sounded strained, almost tight.

The door clicked shut.

I sat alone on the sofa, staring at the gift I had claimed to hate. I took a bite of the melting cake. It tasted incredibly bitter.

The television was still on, playing a late-night entertainment news broadcast.

"...Vicky West, heiress to the West Group, returned to the country today. Miss West, after so many years abroad, do you have anything to say to the cameras?"

The woman on screen smiled with radiant confidence. "Of course. I returned for one specific person. The brilliant Aaron Lockhart. I believe he's attending the gala tonight."

My spoon froze halfway to my mouth.

"I hear he has a girlfriend now," the reporter prompted. "Is that a regret?"

Vicky laughed softly. "It’s a pity we missed our chance back then. But I wonder if he'd do me the honor of having dinner tonight?"

Suddenly, the reporters in the broadcast began to clamor, rushing toward the background of the shot like bees to a flower.

Through the crowd, a familiar face appeared.

Aaron offered a polite, measured nod, his eyes locking with Vicky’s from across the room.

I squeezed the metal spoon until my knuckles turned white.

In all our years together, Aaron had never allowed us to appear in public. He kept our relationship entirely private. When I asked him why we couldn't go public, he told me it was to protect me.

I had graduated from the same university as him. My starting point in life wasn't as high as his, but I had worked tirelessly to build a name for myself in my field. I wasn't wealthy, but I was respected.

Yet, he had bypassed all his rules of "protection" to stand in the spotlight for Vicky West.