"You want to take it off again?" he asked. "After everything you said last night?"

"No," she said. "I didn't mean it like that. I just think it will draw a lot of attention."

​​

His eyes narrowed, "Isn't that the point? Anyone who looks at you will know you're married."

She rolled her eyes, "You saw where my stepmother lives. Do you think I can walk around a neighborhood like that with a five Karat diamond on my finger? It's not safe."

He pursed his lips and stared at her in thought, "Do you plan to spend more time in that neighborhood?"

She nodded, "I'd like to."

"Well, you'll go accompanied by a security team," he said. "It's a dangerous area."

She bit her tongue and stared down at the croissant on her plate. She didn't want his security teams following her around—it was impossible to have any kind of real privacy or freedom if his men were watching and reporting on her every move. She twisted the ring on her finger, feeling the weight of the diamond.

She sighed and looked at his ring. It was a simple platinum band with a beveled edge—modern and masculine. There was nothing flashy about it. She looked at the huge diamond on her finger and felt a creeping suspicion. Had he chosen the ring because he thought it suited her? Or had he picked it because it was impossible to ignore—a way to mark her as his?

"It really looks beautiful on you," he said.

She froze, wondering if she'd accidentally spoken her thoughts aloud. She glanced up at his face, but his expression was calm and detached.

"Thank you," she murmured. "Has the pond been fixed?"

"Almost," he said.

"Good," she replied. "I was worried they were going to destroy one of the most beautiful places on the estate."

"You like the pond?" he asked, smiling slightly.

She nodded and took a sip of her orange juice. She ate in silence—occasionally, the rustle of his newspaper or the clink of his teacup made a sound, but he didn't say a word. Abruptly, he pulled out his chair and stood.

"We're going to my family's place tonight," he said over his shoulder.

She leaned back in the high-backed dining room chair and dropped the last nub of her croissant onto her plate. It was still early in the morning, but she already felt exhausted. It was impossible to have a conversation with Sean, and there was no one in the mansion for her to talk to. She had a long, empty day to dread meeting with his family.

She sighed and unlocked her phone, opening her texts. A blue bubble with the number 88 hovered next to her class group chat. She tapped the chat and began scrolling through the messages. With each new message, her stomach sank—her classmates were discussing which universities they had chosen to go to.

She dropped her phone and closed her eyes. In her last life, she'd never gone to university. At each menial and humiliating job she'd worked to support Marco, she wondered how her life would have been different if she'd gotten a degree. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she wiped them away impatiently.

She grabbed her phone and scrolled through the conversation again before clicking the head teacher's name and sending a private message. She typed, "You're probably not expecting to hear from me as I wasn't a very good student. I regret my laziness, and I want to continue my education. Do you know of any university that might accept a very late application?"

The teacher responded, and she read the message eagerly, "I'm pleased to hear that you want to further your education, Miss Stewart. Some universities will accept the second round of applications if they don't meet their enrollment requirements, but I'm not sure you're qualified for any of them. Regardless if I hear anything, I will inform you."

She reread the message again, frowning at the teacher's formal tone and blunt commentary. Then she stood and went to her room. She curled her legs under her on the sofa, balanced the computer on her lap, and booted it up. She opened a browser and searched the names of several universities.

She clicked on their business degree pages and scanned through information about acceptance rates, test scores, and average GPAs. She chewed her lip—she knew she'd never get into a business program, and the courses seemed terribly dull. She returned to the list of majors and began to read the different degrees: economics, communications, institutional psychology, mathematics. None of it interested her.

She continued reading: English literature, sociology, fashion design. She smiled and clicked on the link for fashion design—as she read the page, she found herself smiling. It didn't require impossibly high marks, and if she combined the degree with some business classes, she'd be in a good position to run Feather Textile Corporation.

She sent another message to the teacher, asking specifically about fashion design programs. And then she waited. Anxious, she clicked back and forth between different tabs, closing any university that required extremely high test scores.

"What are you doing?" a deep voice asked from behind her.

She jumped—Sean was standing behind the sofa, squinting down at her laptop screen.

"When did you come in?" she asked.

"What are you doing?" he repeated.

"I'm looking at universities," she answered. "I'm trying to find one that might accept me."

"What degree do you want to study?" he asked.

"Fashion design," she answered.

His lips twitched, "Was there a university you had in mind?"

She sighed, "Yes, but I'm afraid I didn't do well on any of the entrance examinations."

"That's not a problem," he said. "I can help you get into whatever program you like. Have you looked at King's College in London?"

She shook her head, "That's a really prestigious uni. I don't think I stand a chance there. But Queen Mary University might accept me. Or else, I could try for a place in the US—I've heard it's a lot easier to get into programs over there."

"You should close the laptop," he said. "It's bad for your eyes."

Mystified by the sudden chill in his tone, she shot him a puzzled look. He was scowling at the far wall of the room. She sighed and looked back at her computer screen, carefully copying and pasting the information from the Queen Mary website.

"I said stop looking," he said, reaching down to snap the laptop shut.

"What's wrong? she asked.

Sean turned his back and strode from the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Why was he so inexplicably angry? Was it because she wanted to go to university? She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Did he really expect to keep her imprisoned on his estate?

Bitter tears stung her eyes, and she let them fall. What was the point in having a new chance at life if Sean was going to control her every move? Was she doomed to spend another life living as the uneducated wife of a manipulative, jealous man?

She let herself cry until her eyes felt swollen and dry. Then she opened her computer and began to research scholarships. If Sean wouldn't let her study, she'd find a way to do it on her own.

***

Sean paced his study, his hands clenched into fists at his side. With each step, his foul mood grew. After hours of interrogation, Marco had promised that he would attend Queen Mary University in the fall. He'd sworn on pain of death that he'd never talk to or even look at Catherine again.

Sean had just read the report when Catherine told him she wanted to attend Queen Mary. Could her decision have been a coincidence? He scowled and shook his head. Out of the dozens of universities in the UK and the hundreds in the US, why would she choose a fairly average London university? It didn't make sense.

He circled the room over and over, wondering if it was all an act? Was she planning a secret reunion with Marco? If she was, he'd find out.