Evelyn's POV
Three days married, and I still wasn't used to the ring on my finger.
I twisted the platinum band—simple, elegant, expensive. So different from the gaudy diamond Marcus had given me. That ring had screamed "look at me, I'm rich." This one whispered "I'm claimed."
Damien's ring matched mine. I'd watched him put it on in that Vegas chapel, his gray eyes never leaving my face as he'd said "I do" like a promise. Like a threat to anyone who'd try taking me away.
Mrs. Evelyn Ashford. The name still felt strange on my tongue.
"Stop fidgeting," Damien said from across the breakfast table. He was reading the financial section, perfectly composed in his suit. Ready to destroy companies before lunch. "The ring isn't going to fall off."
"I know." I dropped my hand. "I'm just—"
"Nervous about calling Sophia."
He knew me too well already. Three days, and he could read my moods like a book.
