His Hundred Rings for My Bestie

My best friend has an entire jewelry box overflowing with custom-made rings, a fact she never misses an opportunity to complain about.

Every time he gets a tiny spark of inspiration, he designs another one for me, she said, letting out a performative sigh as she sifted through them. I cant possibly wear them all. But if I try to sell them, he gets incredibly jealous. Why dont you take a few? Just to help me clear some space.

Then, as if a sudden thought had struck her, a flush crept up her cheeks.

"Oh, wait. I completely forgot. Adrian is a chief designer now. You probably wouldn't even look at these."

I felt a sudden, sharp heat radiate from the simple platinum band resting on my own ring finger. It felt less like a piece of jewelry and more like a brand.

Despite his reputation as a brilliant, rising designer, Adrian had never designed a single ring for me.

Not even his flawed prototypes or cast-off drafts were allowed on my fingers.

"I have standards for my art," he had told me once, his voice cool and absolute whenever I asked. "If its not perfect, I wont let it out of my studio."

As we nudged the jewelry box back and forth across the table, one of the rings slipped out and rolled onto the polished wood.

I froze.

The delicate, intertwined band was a design I knew intimately. It was the exact ring I had practically begged Adrian to make for me.

After eight years of living together, of watching him work late into the night, I knew Adrian's creative brushstrokes better than my own reflection.

"Isabel? Whats wrong?"

Linda waved her hand in front of my face, her bright pink nails catching the light.

My throat felt dry, lined with sand. "Nothing. It just... looks incredibly familiar."

Lindas smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She quickly snatched the ring off the table, her movements slightly too frantic.

"Well, contemporary jewelry is all starting to look the same these days," she said, her voice carrying a forced lightness. "Dont overthink it."

"Don't overthink it."

But the uneasy weight in my chest refused to shift.

It wasn't until I had left Lindas apartment and walked down to the street that I realized I had left my keys on her counter. I turned back, only to halt near the entrance of the building.

Adrians black sedan was parked by the curb.

I watched as he stepped out of the driver's seat, walking with a familiar, easy stride straight into the lobby. He didn't page her dial; he had a key fob.

My heart contracted, a tight, cold spasm.

I followed him up, my steps silent on the carpeted corridor. Standing outside Linda's door, her muffled voice drifted through the thin wood, trembling with anxiety.

"Adrian, Isabel seemed to recognize that ring today. What if she starts asking questions?"

"She won't," Adrian's voice came through, steady and utterly dismissive. "Isabel barely steps foot in my home studio. Even if she saw the drafts, she wouldn't remember."

"Linda, stop worrying."

"Linda."

The casual tenderness in his voice when he said her name felt like a physical blow. A dark, suffocating wave of dread washed over me. I had to lean against the corridor wall to keep my knees from buckling.

"I just feel so awful about this," Linda sniffled, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Isabel is my best friend. Shes taken care of me since we were kids. When I lost my job, she brought me to Seattle and helped me get back on my feet. And now Im doing this to her... I'm a horrible person..."

"Linda, give me a little more time. I'll handle it."

A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out the rest of their conversation. My chest felt hollowed out, as if something vital had been brutally torn from me. I didn't have the strength to push the door open and demand answers. Numb and hollow, I walked back down to the street and returned to the apartment I shared with Adrian.

Passing his locked studio, his dismissive words echoed in my head: "Isabel barely steps foot in my home studio."

I pushed the door open.

The desk was cluttered with sketches, and his desktop computer was still humming. I sat down and began clicking through his digital design folders. Buried deep within the directories, I found an encrypted folder labeled simply "L".

I hesitated for a second, then typed in Linda's birthday.

The folder clicked open.

Rows upon rows of detailed design files filled the screen, each one labeled with a specific date.

The first sketch was dated October 11, 2023. It was titled "First Sight".

That was the exact day I had brought Linda to Seattle to live with us. It was the first time Adrian had ever laid eyes on her.

I remembered asking Adrian once if he could design a small piece to commemorate the anniversary of our first date.

He had scoffed, tapping his pencil against his sketchpad. "Design should be organic, Isabel. I don't want to force it for the sake of a calendar date."

I had accepted his explanation, swallowed my disappointment, and tried to respect his creative freedom.

The second design was dated Valentine's Day, 2024.

That date was our actual anniversary, a day we never celebrated because Adrian insisted that commercial holidays were beneath him. "The most important thing is our daily companionship, Isabel, not some capitalist ritual."

I had believed him.

Only now did I realize he didn't lack a romantic bone in his body; he just didn't want to waste his romance on me.

He had designed a delicate, vintage-inspired lace band for Linda to celebrate their first joint holiday. On that very night, he had told me an urgent client required him to stay at the studio overnight.

There were hundreds of designs, spanning the last three years. Every milestone they sharedtheir first trip together, their first New Year's Eve countdownhad its own ring. Even the ring I had begged him for, the one he claimed was a flawed prototype, had been specifically designed to comfort Linda when she was bedridden with severe cramps.

My vision blurred, and my hand shook so violently I could barely control the mouse. Yet, I forced myself to scroll to the very bottom of the directory.

My entire body went rigid.

It was an unfinished draft of a wedding ring. The intricate metalwork was meticulously shaped to spell out Linda's name in elegant, hidden cursive.

Adrian had always told me he couldn't design our wedding rings because he hadn't found the "creative spark of pure happiness" yet.

Now I knew the truth. His definition of happiness simply didn't include me.

I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, but the tears still spilled over, hot and silent.

After a long time, I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and dialed my supervisors number.

"Ruth, about the transfer to the Geneva office... Ill take it."

An eight-year relationship built on a foundation of polite neglect. I was done begging for scraps.

"Really?" Ruth sounded genuinely surprised, though her tone quickly turned cautious. "The Geneva branch is a major commitment, Isabel. It's a minimum of two years. Will your partner be okay with that?"

If she had asked me yesterday, I would have hesitated. I would have worried about Adrian's meals, his laundry, and how the long distance might strain our relationship. But those worries required a foundation of mutual care.

He didn't love me. Why would he care where I was?

"I can handle it, Ruth," I said, my voice steady.

Sensing the finality in my tone, Ruth didn't press further. "Alright. I'll book your ticket. You leave in two days."

After hanging up, I looked up Lindas public social media accounts.

Since moving to Seattle, she had built a modest following as a lifestyle influencer. Her feed was dominated by photos of her hand, showcasing various exquisite rings. She wrote elaborate, poetic stories for each one, and her comment section was filled with envious followers praising her "thoughtful, wealthy boyfriend."

I had always assumed she was dating some reclusive tech entrepreneur, which was why she never introduced him.

How incredibly naive I had been.

Every single ring on her feed matched a file in Adrian's hidden directory. I had even left supportive comments on those posts, wishing her endless happiness.

Her most recent post was a photo of a half-eaten palmier pastry from a boutique bakery downtown. Her caption read: "Eating alone is sweet, but sharing it with you is pure happiness."

When Adrian came home that evening, he set a small, ribbon-tied box of palmiers on the kitchen island.

"I remembered you liked these," he said, offering a tired smile. "I stopped by that bakery on my way home."

It was the exact same bakery.

But he had forgotten one fundamental thing: I had always detested sweets.

Swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I looked at him and said, "Adrian, let's get married."

Adrian stiffened, his hand pausing over his briefcase.

"Lets wait a little longer, Isabel. I've been in a creative rut lately, and I want to design the perfect wedding ring for us first."

Always the same excuse.

My mind drifted back to his early days in the industry, when he couldn't get a single commission and resorted to selling wire-wrapped jewelry at street markets. To secure him a prime spot, I would wake up at five in the morning to stand in the freezing rain. I had caught a fever that winter but refused to see a doctor, saving every penny to pay his booth fees.

Back then, Adrian would hold my chapped hands and cry.

"Isabel, I swear Im going to design the most beautiful wedding ring in the world for you. I want everyone to see how happy you are."

I had believed him. I had waited from age twenty to twenty-eight.

"I don't want to wait anymore, Adrian."

Startled by my bluntness, Adrians expression darkened.

"Isabel, can you stop suffocating me? Is a piece of paper really that important to you?"

He turned and slammed the bedroom door behind him.

I closed my eyes, letting the silence of the apartment wash over me.

The next morning, I went to the boutique hotel where I worked to finalize my transfer paperwork. As I was leaving, a colleague asked if I could cover the evening shift for her.

By nightfall, the banquet manager informed me we were hosting a private VIP celebration for a design studio.

"The owner is a rising star in the jewelry scene, Adrian," the manager whispered. "He won a major regional award tonight and is planning to propose to his muse. We cleared out the premier private dining room for them."

My heart skipped a beat.

Despite everything, a foolish, desperate part of me wondered... but the hope was dead before it could even form.

When the elevator doors opened, Adrian walked out, and right beside him was Linda.

They were dressed in matching, formal evening wear, looking like a perfect couple from a high-society magazine.

When Adrian's studio had started making a profit, he had told me he didn't want me visiting the office because "professional boundaries are important." I had respected his wishes. But seeing how easily his employees interacted with Linda, I realized his boundaries were reserved only for me.

"The room looks amazing, Adrian! Don't keep her waiting!"

"Yeah, the ring is right there in your pocket!"

"You designed it specifically for Linda, boss. It's time to make it official!"

The staff's playful teasing echoed down the hallway. Linda blushed, looking down at her shoes.

Adrian smiled, a look of pure warmth on his face as he pulled a small velvet box from his coat. He slipped the intricate ring onto Lindas finger with a gentleness I had never seen him display.

My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. Even though no one in that hallway knew who I was, I felt stripped bare, exposed in my own quiet humiliation.

Suddenly, Adrians eyes drifted toward the reception desk. Our gaze met.

The smile died on his face, and the hallway fell silent.

I squeezed my hands into tight fists, turned on my heel, and walked away. I wasn't running; I simply refused to give the last eight years of my life an undignified ending.

But Adrian followed me out to the lobby.

"Isabel, don't make a scene," he said, his voice laced with annoyance and a patronizing attempt to soothe me. "The employees were just joking around. It was all for show."

I stared at him, saying nothing.

Adrian kept going, his words tumbling out faster. "Linda... she provided the core conceptual inspiration for this award-winning collection. I only brought her along tonight to show my professional appreciation."

He paused, adding, "Besides, you were the one who asked me to look after her when she moved here. I thought I was doing this for you."

"For me."

When Linda first arrived in Seattle, alone and overwhelmed, I had asked him to show her some kindness. I remembered how Adrian had scoffed back then, complaining that Linda wasn't a child. Yet now, he was using my past kindness as a shield.

"Was putting a ring on her finger for me too?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Linda appeared at the end of the corridor, looking small and fragile.

"Isabel, please don't be mad," she stammered, tears welling in her eyes. "It was just a silly game. This ring... Adrian actually designed it for you."

She hurriedly slid the ring off her finger and tried to force it onto mine. But our hands were different sizes. The sharp, unpolished edge of the setting scraped hard against my knuckle, drawing a thin line of blood.

Linda gasped, pulling her hands back. "Oh my god, Isabel, I'm so sorry... I didn't mean to..."

I looked at her tear-streaked face, and memories of our childhood flashed before my eyes. When her stepmother refused to give her lunch money, I had shared my meals. When she faced an abusive boss in her first job, I spent three sleepless nights drafting her legal complaints to secure her severance.

I had never complained. I had loved her like a sister.

And now, she was holding the knife that was tearing my life apart.

Sensing my cold gaze, Linda shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe... maybe I should just leave. I don't want to cause trouble between you two."

"No," Adrian said, stepping forward to catch her arm. His voice was thick with protective anger. "You have a sensitive stomach and you haven't eaten all evening. Go back inside."

He turned back to me, his eyes turning cold. "Isabel, must you always be so incredibly petty? Linda is your best friend. Why do you have to humiliate her like this?"

"Petty."

The word felt like a physical slap. It shattered the very last piece of devotion I held for him.

Adrian had seemingly forgotten that during his leanest years, I had worked three separate jobs to keep us afloat. I had skipped meals, survived on instant coffee, and worked through the night, eventually developing a chronic stomach ulcer. I still remembered lying awake in the dark, curled in pain, trying not to wake him.

After eight years, he couldn't remember my dietary restrictions, but he knew exactly how sensitive Linda's stomach was.

The vast chasm between his care for her and his neglect of me left me entirely hollow.

Linda looked between us, stepping back. "Im fine, really. I don't want you and Isabel fighting because of me."

She turned to leave, but in her haste, she collided with an intoxicated male patron coming out of the adjacent lounge.

"Watch where you're going!" the man barked, slurring his words.

Lindas eyes welled with fresh tears. "You're the one who ran into me."

The confrontation escalated in an instant. The man, red-faced and furious, snatched a heavy cocktail glass from a nearby tray and slammed it down onto the marble counter.

"What did you say to me?"

The glass shattered. A stray shard flew through the air, slicing across my cheek. I felt the sharp sting before the blood began to trickle down my jaw.

But Adrian didn't look at me. In that split second, his body had moved on pure instinct, pulling Linda tightly against his chest, shielding her from the flying debris.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" he asked her, his voice trembling with panic.

At that moment, I knew I had lost. Completely and irrevocably.

When Adrian finally looked up and saw the blood on my face, a flash of guilt crossed his eyes, and he made a move toward me.

But Linda let out a soft wail. "My ankle... I think I twisted it..."

Adrians attention snapped back to her instantly. Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms.

"Don't worry, I'm taking you to the emergency room."

He cast a fleeting, apologetic glance back at me. "Linda has a very low pain tolerance. I have to get her to a doctor. Get someone at the desk to help you with that scratch, and I'll come back to pick you up later."

Then, he hurried down the hall, leaving me behind.

The physical sting on my cheek was nothing compared to the cold numbness spreading through my chest.

The drunk patron, seeing his target leave, turned his anger on me. Discovering I was a manager, he pointed a finger at my face. "I am a premier rewards member here! Is this how your staff treats guests?"

His shouting drew a crowd. If he filed a formal complaint, it would ruin my colleagues performance record for the quarter. I had no choice but to swallow my pride and apologize.

"If you're really sorry," the man sneered, pouring three double shots of high-proof whiskey onto the bar, "drink these. Then we'll call it even."

The alcohol hit my empty, ulcer-damaged stomach like liquid fire. A violent wave of nausea and sharp, stabbing pain radiated through my abdomen.

By the time I staggered out of the hotel lobby, I could barely stand. I leaned against the cold brick wall, my hand shaking as I dialed Adrians number.

"Adrian... my stomach hurts so bad... please, can you come get me..."

"Just hold on, Isabel. I can't leave right now"

Before he could finish, Lindas voice echoed in the background, crying out in pain. Adrian hung up immediately.

My vision went black, and the pain dragged me down into unconsciousness.

When I opened my eyes, the sterile smell of disinfectant filled my nose. A doctor stood over my bed, looking at me with a mixture of pity and frustration.

"You need to be much more careful," the doctor said softly. "How could you drink high-proof alcohol while pregnant?"

My heart stopped.

"The... pregnancy?" I whispered, my hand instinctively drifting to my flat, empty stomach.

"I'm sorry," the doctor replied gently. "We couldn't save the pregnancy."

A dull, heavy ache settled deep in my bones. The loss of that tiny, unborn life took the very last of my lingering hope with it.

The following afternoon, I discharged myself and returned to the quiet apartment. Adrian wasn't there.

I turned on my phone and saw a text he had sent the previous night:

"Linda took a nasty fall and there's no one else to watch her. Isabel, please be the bigger person for once."

I didn't reply.

As I closed the messaging app, a notification from his studio's official account popped up on my feed. It was a professionally shot photo from the previous night's dinner. Adrian was on one knee, sliding a ring onto Lindas finger under a canopy of fairy lights. The caption was filled with romance and promises of forever.

Lindas personal account had already been tagged by his followers. The comment section was a flood of congratulations.

"No wonder that ring is so beautiful! Adrian outdid himself."

"You two are absolute couple goals!"

"A match made in heaven."

I stared at the screen, a cold, dry laugh escaping my throat.

I was done keeping secrets.

I compiled a digital folder of my eight years with Adrianthe rent receipts I paid, the hospital bills from my overworked years, the dates of his designs matching Linda's timeline, and finally, my miscarriage discharge papers from last night.

I posted them all directly under his studio's announcement.

"Now you two can love each other without any secrets. Congratulations to my best friend and my partner of eight years."

I turned off my phone, grabbed my pre-packed suitcases, and walked out the door toward the airport.

As I boarded the plane to Geneva, my phone, which I had briefly turned back on to check my boarding pass, began to ring frantically.

The screen flashed with a single name: "Adrian".