I slip both the engagement and wedding rings onto Belle's finger. "Oh," she says with surprise, eyes turning round. "It—it fits, and it's. . ." She doesn't finish the sentence, and I tell myself I don't care what she thinks of the choice I made. It's simply a status symbol meant to bind us together and show the strength of my power to any and all. Yet the ring seems to be made for her. An elaborate jeweled rose with diamond thorns curving around the band. The opulent design is perfect on her hand, and I pride myself on choosing so well. My own is a black band, cheap and made of flexible
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