Page 185 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

We’re alone but for the steady tick of the French mantel clock and the muted hum of the air-conditioning. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light spilling through the tall windows.

Théo moves to a central case, the same one I’d stood before with Isla, my focus then anywhere but on the gem that had held her captivated. Now, I let myself look. Really look.

The glass gleams like still water. Beneath it, the opal rests in its carved ebony box, a wisp of midnight-blue velvet cradling it. Even through the barrier, light catches in its depths.

“She saw fire in it.” Théo’s voice is low.

I remember her saying so. Even more, I remember my impatience. So many fuck-ups.

The assistant returns, silent, carrying a small silver tray. The porcelain cup is white, and the saucer is rimmed in gold. Steam curls from the café au lait, rich with the scent of dark roast and warm milk. I take it, letting the first sip settle on my tongue. Satisfying.

Théo unlocks the case with a small brass key, the click precise in the quiet. He lifts the lid of the ebony box and, with bare hands—steady, careful—removes the opal.

Up close, it’s nothing like I expected. Colors shift and ripple under its milky surface, a slow dance of green fire, gold lightning, violet shadows. There’s depth there, layers, as if there’s a living flame hidden in stone.

“You finally understand.”

Maybe I do.

“La Flamme Cachée.” He turns it so the light kisses a streak of red deep inside. “The hidden flame. Each woman who owned it said it changed her life.”

The way I intend to change hers. “I’ll take it.”

“A pendant is elegant.” Théo is thoughtful. “It sits close to the heart and moves with her, catching the light when she turns her head. There’s a poetry to it.” His gaze sharpens. “She could choose when to wear it. When to let it be seen.”

For a moment, I picture it against her throat, the opal catching the light as it rests above her collarbone. A pendant would let it move, shift, draw the eye. But it could be hidden under silk, tucked away when she wanted privacy.

I shake my head. “Too easy to take off. Too easy to lose. I don’t want it forgotten in a drawer. I want her to see it every day, to feel it on her hand when she reaches for a book or a glass of wine.”I want candlelight to refract off it when we make love.

And there’s a matter of hoping she’ll once again wear my collar, though potentially the opal could be part of that.

One thing is certain. When I put the piece around her throat for a second time—if she’ll allow it—I will lock it and throw away the key.

He studies me for a beat, then inclines his head. “A ring, then. Worn, noticed. It announces itself without shouting. The stone will sit proud enough to command attention, but low enough to protect it from harm.”

“Platinum.” Only the best.

“Oui. Platinum.” His tone is as decisive as mine. “A full bezel, seamless, so the eye moves over the edge and straight into the fire. Around it, a recessed halo—micro-pavé diamonds, not large, just a shimmer, like candlelight at the edge of vision. It will make the opal burn brighter.”

I take another sip of coffee, heat curling through me. “Yes.” That was the whole point.

His nod is deliberate, the decision sealed. “Then in the gallery, beneath the setting…something hidden. For her alone. Perhaps French Quarter ironwork, a single sapphire at the center. She’ll know it’s there. That will be enough.”

I nod. Perfect.

“You know I’ll need time to set this,” he says.

“Twenty-four hours.”

“I mean real time, Dorian. I do not work under pressure.”

“Sorry. I don’t accept that as an answer.” I set the cup down on the counter, lean forward, my shadow falling over the velvet. “I’m not leaving New Orleans without it.”

He exhales through his nose. “I have other work. Other customers.”

“Nothing more important.”

“You know someone else offered to buy this stone?”