I used to believe that evil announced itself with thunder and lightning, with dramatic confrontations and unmistakable signs. Now I know better. The most dangerous kind of evil slips into your life wrapped in velvet, fastened with diamonds, and presented by the person who swears they love you most.
The night my husband gave me the bracelet, I genuinely believed I was the luckiest woman in San Francisco. We were celebrating our tenth anniversary at Aria, one of those restaurants where the city spreads beneath you like a carpet of lights and the silence between courses feels expensive. Ethan looked perfect in his charcoal suit, the one that made his shoulders look broader and his eyes darker.
When he smiled across the candlelight, the familiar crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, and I felt that warm rush of certainty that I’d chosen the right person to build a life with. “Happy tenth anniversary, Maya,” he said, raising his glass of Cabernet. The wine caught the light, glowing ruby-red between us.
I clinked my glass against his, laughing. “To ten years of tolerating each other’s quirks and pretending we enjoy the same Netflix shows.”
“Hey, I genuinely like your documentaries about obscure architectural movements,” he protested with mock offense. “You fall asleep fifteen minutes into every single one.”
“That’s because they’re so soothing,” he countered, grinning.
“It’s a compliment to your taste.”
We’d ordered too much, as usual—seared scallops that melted on the tongue, truffle risotto so rich it felt decadent, a perfectly cooked ribeye we shared like teenagers on a first date. When dessert arrived, we made our usual jokes about the tiny portions and laughed about whether three bites of chocolate mousse really justified the price tag. It felt easy.
Safe. Like coming home after a long day. After the plates were cleared and we’d finished our coffee, Ethan reached into his jacket pocket with a look I recognized—part mischief, part nervousness.
“I know we said no big gifts this year,” he began. I groaned playfully. “Ethan, we agreed.
Simple and thoughtful, remember?”
“Well, you also said you’d stop working past midnight on weekdays, and I’ve noticed you breaking that promise at least twice a week,” he said smoothly. “So I figured we were both entitled to a little rule-bending.”
He placed a small crimson velvet box on the white tablecloth between us. My breath caught.
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