Chap­ter 16 begins with a con­fes­sion that still feels sur­re­al: I’m engaged. Not just in the­o­ry, but actu­al­ly wear­ing a sparkling, heavy emer­ald ring on my finger—one Eddie chose long before I even knew a pro­pos­al was on the hori­zon. It’s not just the size or the cut that makes me feel breathless—it’s the fact that some­one picked me, saw me, and want­ed a future with me with­out need­ing to be con­vinced.

For a girl who grew up being left out, over­looked, and shuf­fled around, that act of delib­er­ate love car­ries more weight than gold. Pass­ing the lit­tle bridal shop I’ve walked by so many times, I feel some­thing unex­pect­ed flut­ter­ing in my chest—curiosity wrapped in long­ing. And when I final­ly step through its old wood­en door, greet­ed by warmth and low light­ing, I don’t feel out of place; I feel like some­one who belongs there.

The bou­tique feels worlds away from the chaot­ic, plas­tic-wrapped, flu­o­res­cent-lit bridal mega­s­tores. There’s no fren­zy here—just ele­gance, charm, and dress­es draped like whis­pers over antique fur­ni­ture. Hunt­ley, with her pic­ture-per­fect blonde chignon and clas­sic black sheath dress, floats toward me with effort­less grace, her eyes going straight to the emer­ald on my hand.

She doesn’t ask how much it cost, doesn’t com­ment on carats, but I see her expres­sion shift—something sub­tle, a qui­et acknowl­edg­ment of sta­tus. I nev­er imag­ined I’d care about fab­rics like duchess satin or shades like can­dle­light ivory, but here I am, sip­ping cham­pagne and talk­ing veils. Some­how, I’ve crossed into a world I used to only observe from afar.

My thoughts swirl with tulle and French lace as I leave the shop, only to run into Emi­ly out­side, clutch­ing a cof­fee and exud­ing design­er fra­grance. Her delight is genuine—she squeals, hugs me, demands to see the ring, and I oblige, though I feel awk­ward try­ing to show it off like I’m used to it. The moment is sac­cha­rine and shim­mer­ing, and for once, I lean into it with­out sec­ond-guess­ing myself.

Emi­ly asks the usu­al questions—when, where, how big—and I real­ize I’ve bare­ly thought beyond the ring. I’ve fan­ta­sized about the mar­riage, the iden­ti­ty of being Mrs. Rochester, but not the spec­ta­cle of a wed­ding. Now I pic­ture it clear­ly: Eddie’s fam­i­ly lin­ing rows in a church while mine is a ghost town of emp­ty pews and a sin­gle unwel­come guest chew­ing cere­al.

I’m still pro­cess­ing that when I stop by Whole Foods for gro­ceries. The sooth­ing light­ing and expen­sive cheese selec­tions are a com­fort, though I find myself miss­ing the sim­plic­i­ty of boxed mac and cheese. I toy with the idea of buy­ing junk food, but the organ­ic hum­mus stares back judg­men­tal­ly, and I sigh.

Then comes a voice I rec­og­nize, oily and unwelcome—Tripp Ingra­ham. His appear­ance has improved slight­ly since I last saw him, but the smirk is the same, and his words drip with casu­al misog­y­ny. He men­tions my engage­ment before I even do, proof that Emily’s lips aren’t as sealed as promised.

His tone makes my skin crawl, his insin­u­a­tions about Eddie and women and boats laced with ven­om. I make a quick exit, but not before he lobs a final com­ment that stings hard­er than it should: “Women have bad luck around Eddie Rochester and boats.” I walk away, but the words fol­low me like shad­ows.

Back in the car, unease knots in my stom­ach, Tripp’s warn­ing slith­er­ing between my ribs. It’s absurd, I tell myself—Eddie wasn’t even there when Bea drowned, and they were drunk. Still, the image of her life­less, pale beneath the water, refus­es to leave me.

I try to refo­cus on the good—the bou­tique, the ring, Emily’s excit­ed hug—but anx­i­ety curls at the edges of my thoughts. Step­ping into the house, I find Eddie already home, look­ing relaxed and hap­py in his usu­al crisp but­ton-down and shorts. His warm greet­ing should be enough to steady me.

But he sees the ten­sion on my face before I can hide it. “Every­thing okay?” he asks, brow fur­row­ing. And I smile, but behind it, I won­der: is any­thing ever as per­fect as it seems?