There was no oxygen in my office. No air. No light. No functioning sense of direction or time or reason. Just the image Habeeb had shown me... over and over and over again... like my brain had become a carousel for rich people’s lies and I was the greased horse spinning backward in the wrong dress.
Daphne Greer. In London. Wearing a f*****g diamond.
She wasn’t even holding her hand like normal people did in those engagement soft-launches... no awkward coffee mug or blurry croissant in the background... it was just her. Her hand. And the ring. Full frontal. No caption. No location tag. Just the ring, big enough to sit its own ass on a throne and file taxes, and her red-manicured fingers that said I always win.
“What the hell is this,” I croaked, which was generous of me, because my body
