Chapter 4: The Nine‑Dollar Ring

My mom was nagging me to get married. She called it planning. It felt like pushing.

Carter hadn’t dumped me, and he hadn’t actually cheated on me either. Technically, he’d behaved. Emotionally? Not so much.

Even the legendary “true love” he supposedly pined for in Europe never materialized. She was a ghost in our relationship.

To be fair, these past three years, aside from not loving me, Carter was a pretty good boyfriend. He did the work—the visible parts, anyway.

He was good in bed, and he looked great outside of it. Pretty and presentable go a long way in New York.

When my mom was sick and couldn’t get a hospital bed, he made one call and solved everything. Money moves faster than ambulances.

When my dad’s business was on the verge of collapse, he stepped in and invested. He liked being the hero. He was good at it.

Everyone around me talked about how great he was. Their voices were a chorus. I was supposed to be grateful for every note.

They said he was worth all the effort I’d put in. Like he was a prize you earned with devotion.

They all hoped I’d marry him. They pictured the dress, the venue, the photos on Instagram.

Even if he blurred lines with other women and was a mess in relationships. Even if my gut felt hollow more often than not.

But they were going to be disappointed. I was done performing their dream.

After I proposed, he’d only dump me. His pride couldn’t resist a public stage.

And I’d be left heartbroken, clutching my massive breakup payout and crying my eyes out. Tears and wire transfers—modern love in two acts.

After Carter fell asleep, I pulled out my phone and checked Amazon. Old habit when I needed to make a move: start small, start practical.

My bank account had nearly eight figures—thanks to a decent family inheritance and a solid exit from my last startup—but I still couldn’t bring myself to buy a $99 ring. It was about principle, not cash flow.

While hesitating, memories of his group chat insults and that unfamiliar woman’s perfume flashed through my mind. The rose scent had a name now—it was humiliation.

I immediately closed Amazon and switched to Walmart.com. If the proposal was theater, the prop didn’t need to be fancy.

After carefully picking out a $9.99 ring, I finally went to sleep, oddly content. It was perfect—cheap, obvious, and exactly on-brand for what I wanted to trigger.

I set the proposal date for Carter’s birthday. He loved attention; I was about to hand him a spotlight.

I decorated his Hamptons beach house for a party. Balloons, string lights, the whole Instagram-ready spread.

To make the proposal perfect, I secretly notified all his friends. I made sure the guest list included every spectator who ever laughed at a girl like me.

“🎉 Carter’s b-day this Sat—come celebrate! You’re all invited to witness the happy ending of our love story!” I typed it sugary sweet, like cotton candy that glues your teeth together.

Not long after sending out the invites, I got a string of question marks in reply. Everyone loves a show—they just want confirmation it’s real.

I picked the biggest gossip among his friends and replied, “Yep, I’m planning to propose to Carter at the party. 🤫 Don’t spill the beans for me, okay?” I dangled the secret like bait. It worked, of course.

Gossips never disappoint. They’re as reliable as bad habits.