"Stop here," Calla told the driver.
They were still in the city. She couldn't go home yet. She needed armor. She needed Gemma.
She walked into the coffee shop, her legs still feeling like jelly. Gemma was in the back booth, scrolling on her phone.
"Oh my god," Gemma squealed when she saw Calla. "You're alive! I thought he killed you and buried you in the desert."
Calla slid into the booth. "Coffee. Black. Now."
"Spill," Gemma leaned in, her eyes hungry. "What happened? Did you guys actually...?"
"He yelled at me," Calla lied. She picked up a napkin and started shredding it. "He made me sleep in the guest room. It was humiliating."
"That's it?" Gemma looked disappointed. "But the way he looked at you..."
Calla reached for the sugar dispenser. As she did, her sleeve rode up.
The diamond caught the overhead halogen light. It flashed like a supernova.
Gemma gasped. She grabbed Calla's hand.
"Calla Robbins! Is that a Harry Winston?" Gemma shrieked. "That's five carats! Who gave you that?"
Calla tried to yank her hand back, but Gemma's grip was tight.
"It's... it's a prop! For a play!"
"You're not in a play!" Gemma lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "Did you marry him? Did you marry Christ?"
Calla felt the tears pricking her eyes. She nodded.
"I was drunk, Gem. I thought it was a joke. But he... he has the paper. It's real."
Gemma stared at her, horror dawning on her face. "Francis is going to kill him. Or you. Or both of you."
"I know," Calla put her head in her hands. "I can't get it off. My fingers are swollen from the flight."
"You have to hide it," Gemma hissed. "If Francis sees that..."
Calla grabbed a packet of butter from the table. She ripped it open and smeared the grease on her finger. She pulled. It hurt. Her knuckle turned angry red.
With a final, painful pop, the ring slid off.
Calla breathed a sigh of relief. She unclasped the thin gold chain around her neck-a gift from her parents before they died-and threaded the massive diamond onto it. She clasped it back around her neck and tucked the ring under her shirt.
The cold metal rested right between her breasts, heavy against her heart.
"Don't tell anyone," Calla begged.
"Who am I going to tell?" Gemma whispered. "I like being alive."
Calla's phone rang. It was Joan, the housekeeper.
"Miss Calla? Francis is pacing the foyer. He's been waiting for thirty minutes."
Calla closed her eyes. "I'm five minutes away, Joan."
She hung up and looked at Gemma. "Wish me luck."
"Luck won't save you," Gemma said grimly. "You're walking into a war zone."
