The Ring I Designed, The Finger She Wore It On Chapter 03

The Ring I Designed, The Finger She Wore It On Chapter 03

Grant admitted it without hesitation.

“I had someone send the email.”

I threw the printout onto his desk.

“What gave you the right to turn down work in my name?”

“We’d just gotten married. You were traveling to more than a dozen countries every month. When did that leave you any time for our marriage?”

“You were the one who said that if I quit, you’d spend more time with me.”

He looked up.

“And I gave you the best life I could.”

“Shutting off my cards and taking my car keys is your idea of the best life?”

“That was punishment, not your life.”

He said it as if the distinction were perfectly reasonable.

“As long as you behave, I can give it all back anytime.”

A suffocating heaviness settled over me.

What I’d mistaken for care was nothing more than a reward he handed out for high scores.

The moment I stopped complying, he could take it all away.

Camille walked in, saw us arguing, and immediately looked close to tears.

“This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have used Vivian’s things.”

She unclipped her ID badge and pulled out the project documents.

“I don’t want to lead the project anymore. I don’t want you two fighting because of me.”

Grant pushed the documents back into her arms.

“No one is taking this position away from you.”

Then he turned to me.

“Don’t bring your personal feelings into the office.”

I said nothing else and walked out.

That afternoon, I got a call from my mother’s publisher.

“Ms. Ward, your mother’s book launch was moved up. Why aren’t you here yet?”

By the time I reached the venue, Camille Warren’s name was already glowing across the main screen.

was the last book my mother completed during her illness, a collection of notes on interpreting.

Before she died, she gave me the manuscript and told me not to publish it until I was ready to step back into an interpreting booth.

Now Camille was standing onstage with my mother’s manuscript in her hands, presenting it as a professional publication her team had compiled.

Grant sat calmly in the front row.

I rushed onto the stage and snatched the microphone.

“My mother left this manuscript to me. Every page is covered in her notes. What gives you the right to put your name on it?”

Whispers erupted through the audience.

Grant stood, came onto the stage, and took the microphone from me.

“Vivian Ward has been emotionally unstable lately. I take responsibility for today’s disruption.”

He motioned for security to come up.

I clutched the manuscript tighter.

“Grant, this was my mother’s.”

“The publisher has authorization.”

“From whom?”

He didn’t answer.

Camille spoke softly.

“Grant said that since you’re married, he could make the decision for you. Vivian, I only helped compile the manuscript. I would never take your mother’s credit.”

I turned to the title page.

My mother’s name was still there.

Mine had been cut out.

And the message she’d written to me—[May Vivian always trust her own voice.]—had been blacked out completely.

I slapped Camille.

The room erupted.

Grant caught my wrist and pulled me away from her.

“Are you done making a scene?”

I held the manuscript up in front of him.

“My mother left this to me.”

“It’s been sitting at home gathering dust. Camille can put it in front of far more people. That’s what actually gives it value.”

Tears stung my eyes.

“If this were your mother’s manuscript, would you still say that?”

His expression hardened.

“Don’t use the dead to make a point.”

He pulled the manuscript out of my hands.

The paper tore with a soft rip.

The title page split down the middle, leaving only half of my mother’s signature.

A sharp cramp suddenly seized my lower abdomen.

I grabbed the edge of the table as cold sweat trickled down my back.

Camille held her cheek and said quietly, “Vivian doesn’t look well. Maybe we should pause the launch.”

Grant glanced at me.

“She always finds a way to ruin the moment.”

Then he turned to security.

“Take her home.”

As they escorted me out of the venue, applause started up again behind me.

Back home, I searched Grant’s study for the authorization papers tied to my mother’s manuscript.

Instead, I found a black notebook.

Every page was covered in Grant’s handwriting.

[Prospective Partner Evaluation]

[Family background: 85.]

[Professional ability: 95.]

[Emotional stability: 76.]

[Reproductive risk: 68.]

The final entry had my name.

[Vivian Ward. Overall score: 89. Suitable for marriage.]

Above it was a single line.

[Camille Warren. Perfect score. Not included in marriage assessment.]

Footsteps sounded outside the room.

As I closed the notebook, a premarital assessment form slipped out from between the pages.

It was dated the day before Grant proposed to me.