Tate is down on one knee, his hands clasping a little leather box, and when my rounded eyes flash to his, the fingers with my name inked across them gently ease open the lid. Sat inside a plump cushioned bed is a large twinkling diamond, so bright and multifaceted in the winter sunlight that it sends millions of refractions sparkling across Tate’s sun-kissed skin. “I’ve wanted to do this since you were fourteen years old,” he says. My eyes sting as I hold back a sob. “And I needed it to be perfect for my girl, so I thought I should write a speech.”
