"This ring is beautiful," Delia whispered, her breath forming a small cloud in the cold night air. She stood on the grand balcony, a quiet escape from the lively music and chatter of the anniversary party inside. In her palm rested a delicate ring. A deep red ruby, cut into the shape of a heart, sat at its center. "He must have spent a fortune to get this for our marriage anniversary."
A faint, sad smile touched her lips as she traced the smooth, cool surface of the stone with her thumb. "Too bad it doesn't fit," she murmured to herself. Earlier, in the privacy of their room, she had eagerly tried to slide it onto her ring finger, her heart fluttering with anticipation. But it had stopped stubbornly at her knuckle, a perfect circle too small for her. She had felt a pang of disappointment but had quickly dismissed it. It was a simple mistake, one they could laugh about later. She carefully placed the ring into the pocket of her velvet dress.
Deciding the solitude had served its purpose, she turned to go back inside. Her plan was to find her husband, George, and perhaps persuade him to join the sea of dancing couples on the polished ballroom floor. The thought of being held in his arms, swaying to the romantic melody, sent a shiver of warmth through her. As she reached the doorway, she collided with a man she didn't recognize.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, pardon me," she said, quickly stepping back to give him space.
"No, the fault is all mine, my lady," the man apologized, his voice gentle. He was tall and handsome, with kind eyes that now held a look of concern. "I hope I didn't hurt you?"
"Not at all, I am quite alright," Delia replied, offering him a reassuring smile. It was then that she recognized him. He was the Duke of Northwood, the very man who had been the subject of countless whispers all evening. Everyone believed he was courting her younger sister, Anne. "If you are looking for Anne, she should be in the garden."
A fleeting, melancholic expression crossed the Duke's face. "I'm actually looking for the exit to leave," he said quietly.
Delia was taken aback by his words. "Oh," she managed, a little surprised. She pointed towards the long, winding driveway that led to the estate's main gates. "The exit is just down that way."
"Thank you, my lady," he said with a polite nod of his head. He then turned and walked away.
Delia watched him go, a frown creasing her brow. "I thought his grace and Anne were courting?" she wondered aloud. "What did she do this time?" It was a familiar pattern with Anne. She loved the chase, the adoration, but her interest often faded as quickly as it appeared. Shaking her head, Delia pushed the thought aside. Her priority was to find George.
She made her way through the bustling ballroom, her eyes scanning the crowd of elegantly dressed guests. She saw friends and neighbors, all lost in the revelry of the night, but George was not among them. A small knot of unease began to form in her stomach. She checked the grand dining hall, with its long tables laden with food and drink, but he was not there either.
Her search led her to the stone-paved terrace that overlooked the sprawling gardens. She walked along a gravel path, the soft crunch of her shoes the only sound in the stillness. Then, she heard voices drifting from a more secluded part of the garden, near a large, weeping willow tree. One of the voices was unmistakably George's.
A wave of relief washed over her, and a smile returned to her face. She instinctively reached into her pocket, her fingers closing around the small, precious ring. She pulled it out, planning to show it to him, to tease him gently about his mistake with the size.
As she drew closer, she saw him. He was not alone. Her sister, Anne, was with him. Delia paused, concealed by the thick foliage of a rose bush. She felt a sudden reluctance to interrupt them. George, having place a shawl on Anne, was kneeling on the damp grass in front of her, who was seated on a marble bench.
The scene struck Delia as odd and unsettling. Why was her husband on his knees before her sister?
It was then that she heard his words, carried clearly on the still night air, and the chill she had felt on the balcony pierced her heart with an icy-cold dread.
"I couldn't find the ring, I'm sorry," George said, his voice strained and filled with a desperation she had never heard from him before. "I looked everywhere for it. It must have fallen from my pocket."
Delia's breath caught in her throat. The ring. He was talking about a ring. Her hand, clutching the small ruby ring, began to tremble violently.
"I promise," George pleaded, his eyes fixed on Anne's face. "I'll save more money. I'll get a bigger one for you. A much better one, I swear it. Just please, don't be angry with me."
Anne remained silent for a long, agonizing moment. She simply looked down at George, a condescending, almost amused smile playing on her lips. In the pale moonlight, Delia could see the smug satisfaction in her sister's expression. Anne was enjoying his torment, reveling in the power she held over him. It was a cruel game, one Anne had played many times before. Anne has always shown Delia that she can have anything Delia desires. The realization dawned on Delia with a sickening clarity. All those times Anne had openly flirted with George, all the lingering glances and suggestive comments—Delia had dismissed them as harmless, childish behavior. She had trusted her husband. She had trusted her sister.
Finally, Anne rose gracefully from the bench. She looked down at George, who remained kneeling like a penitent servant.
"Come back when you're richer than the duke," she said, her voice and cold.
With that final, dismissive remark, she turned and walked away, her silk gown rustling as she disappeared back towards the brightly lit mansion, leaving George alone in the darkness.
George remained on his knees for a moment longer, his head bowed in defeat. Delia could see his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He looked utterly broken. When he finally rose to his feet, his face was pale and streaked with tears. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his expression one of complete despair.
Hidden behind the rose bush, Delia felt as though the world had tilted on its axis. Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent against her cold skin. The ring in her hand now felt like a leaden weight, a cursed object. It was never for her. It was never a symbol of their love, of their anniversary. It was a secret offering for her sister.
The reason it was too small was devastatingly simple: Anne's fingers were slender and delicate, unlike her own.
Everything clicked into place with horrifying clarity: George's recent secrecy, his claims of working late, the "surprise" he had been saving for. It had all been a lie. His heart, his affection, his grand romantic gesture—it was all for Anne.