“This ring doesn’t feel real,” I whispered, turning my hand beneath the low chandelier light. Aiden barely glanced at me. “It’s not supposed to. It’s supposed to look real.” That was our agreement in a single sentence—appearance over truth. But sitting across from him in that silent dining room, with the echo of our signed contract still heavy in the air, I couldn’t ignore the cold coil tightening in my stomach. I had just sold a piece of myself. And the buyer didn’t believe in refunds.