-

Even without a loupe, the diamond sparkles in a million different ways, and I stop, just for a moment, to stare at the facets. Sometimes, I think I can see myself in these tiny mirrors, my face divided and then replicated across the atoms.

A fire truck siren snaps me out of my reverie. The windows are open, and the sounds of New York City in all its evening glory dance in, along with a breeze that flutters the velvety petals of the light pink carnations I had bought for myself after work today. It's early June, and the scents of summer fill my apartment.

The seven o'clock news is on: there will be a candlelight vigil for the fallen Bianca Diaz this weekend at the place where she'd died. She is the third victim in the past five months, with no discernible pattern besides their physical appearance: naturally blonde, freakishly tall, and buxom with blue eyes as if they were a Barbie come to life. Authorities are currently "investigating possible leads" and will "keep the public updated."

In other words, the authorities don't know shit. Anyway, I'm so distracted by this diamond. It's a pear-shaped beauty, four carats, and is classified a D, the best of the best. I only work with the best, and Isaac, my dealer — my diamond dealer — always turns out with the cream of the crop because he knows I expect nothing less.

My phone buzzes loudly on the desk, and I carefully set down the diamond onto the bead mat in front of me where I can see it. I snatch my phone from the corner of the desk and pull up the text messages, but my displeasure sours my stomach when I see who it is.

I refuse to believe that you are *this* busy. You're just a receptionist — you can hardly call what you do "work." I'm a lawyer at Hope, Kessler, & Greenway, and even I have the time to write this text. Call me ASAP

I chuckle. Now this is the Cow I know. I merely thumbs up the message because I know it'll only annoy her even more. I don't know why she's so adamant on all of us having dinner together, but that is the last thing I want to do, even if we're the only ones alive on the planet. I click on her profile and update her name to "Mad Cow." Then, I pull up the message I'd sent to Courtney Taylor yesterday morning. Antonia had sent me her contact info after our dinner, which had lasted for three hours somehow, and by then, it had been too late at night to text anyone.

My irritation at Antonia had grown tenfold by the time we'd air kissed good night, but I'd reminded myself of her wallet and all the glorious things that come out of it. Thus, I'd waited until eight this morning, as I was waiting to get my bagel sandwich, to deliver my message to Courtney.

My phone tells me the text has been delivered, so either she has no cell reception or she's pointedly ignoring me. Her loss — it's not like I have a shortage of rich and famous clients who actually want my work.

Speaking of which, I set my phone back down and, with my forceps, pinch the diamond in its metal legs. I take the setting that I'd been working on and, with a plink, drop the diamond into it. It fits perfectly.

I survey my handiwork. As always, it's beautiful, but this ring nearly makes me want to keep it for myself. The eternity band is crafted out of pure yellow gold and is studded with two-carat round diamonds, also grade D, in a delicate French V split setting. The diamond, itself, shines solo in a three-claw prong setting raised high so it can catch the light and maybe the edge of a sweater.

My favorite diamond cut is the Marquise, so I'm quite partial to the one I'd created for Isadora Dearing; however, this pear ring is actually glittering, so, without hesitation, I slide it onto my ring finger.

Not for the first time, I think back to why I had decided to become a fine jeweler: For the sparkle, and, more specifically, for power over the sparkle. Though it was all a marketing tactic from De Beers way back in the day, I have to admit, they were right about one thing: Diamonds are a girl's best friends.

That, and the fact that I should've been a hand model. My hands are smooth and beautiful, my fingers slender and long, the nails tapered and newly painted a milky white; they elevate the ring to a new type of elegance, and, for just a moment, I calculate how much time it would take for me to create an identical one and keep this one for myself. I don't because, well, I'm not stupid to waste my precious time, energy, and resources on a ring I've already perfected.

I flutter my fingers under the bright light one last time before I slide the ring off and wipe my oils off the precious metal. Then, I open the top drawer from the cabinet under the desk, to my left, and take out a ring box. The ring boxes are custom made out of marble and glass with lines of gold, and I slide the new ring into the slit of the velvet cushion that awaits it. I snap the lid closed where the thin letters, EHD for Erin Han Designs, have been engraved into the marble.

From another drawer, I take out a velvet pouch and drop the ring box into its dark green depths; the pouch will protect the box from any scratches or dents as I place the whole thing into my purse to bring tomorrow. I like to hand-deliver all my rings, at least to the clients living in the city — it makes for a more personalized experience, which New Yorkers froth at the mouth for. As a New Yorker myself, I can't blame them.

-

There is a Code Red at the office: A pregnant client by the name of Christy Yarrow has left her husband of five years to declare her love for Doc. That's why it's Code Red, by the way — red for love.

I'm sitting at my desk, the desk phone squeezed between my shoulder and ear, when I get the text:

Code Red. Help

It's from Sadie, and as soon as I see it, I begin the standard protocol:

First, I stand up and address the waiting room, currently full with patients. They look up from their phones and magazines, at me.

"Ladies, Dr. Moretti is running a little behind. I apologize for the wait, so please enjoy homemade cookies and tea on us."

The women exchange glances, but no one looks upset. I smile at them reassuringly and then move to the staff room where I prepare the cookies — chocolate chip, and, yes, they're homemade; Sadie makes them and brings them in as she's the only one who doesn't have anything else to do outside of work, not that I'm surprised — and herbal tea. I gather them both onto the lone silver tray that we have and go back out to the waiting room and distribute everything; somehow, I come out of it unscathed.

Afterward, I sit back down at my desk and pretend to scroll on my computer for about thirty seconds before I get up again, as if I need to go to the bathroom or fill up my water bottle. I don't want to make it seem as if I'm in a hurry because that would only frazzle these impatient, swollen Manhattanite divas who think the world revolves around them.

As soon as I know they can't see me, I quicken my step toward Exam Room 4. How do I know it's that room and not the others? Because of the declarations of love pouring from behind the door.

I open the door and take exactly two seconds to process what I'm seeing in front of me: Sadie's back is to me, and her pale arms are extended toward Mrs. Yarrow of Hudson Yards who has a fistful of Doc's shirt and is currently shouting, straight into his face, "I love you, Adam! I've always loved you! Please, give me a chance — I'll make you the happiest man alive!"

I want to laugh out loud. This scene is so delusional and so sad that all I want to do is just stand there and watch it unfold in front of me with a bowl of buttery popcorn. Girl, you look like a balloon, and you're shrieking like a lunatic, and you think you have a chance with Doc? Puh-lease.

Alas, I don't get paid to stand around so I stride over to Sadie and Mrs. Yarrow. I push Sadie aside, and, with one forceful yank, I pull Mrs. Yarrow off Doc. The impact nearly renders her to fall onto the floor, but she only stumbles like a drunkard who's miscalculated where the sidewalk is.

I grab onto her elbow, not to steady her but to stop her from crashing into me. I'm wearing a collared shirt today, freshly ironed, and I cannot have anyone, least of all someone as pitiful as Mrs. Yarrow, wrinkle it.

As embarrassing as she's being, she's still pregnant, and I have to tread lightly, lest she get injured and injure the baby and end up suing us, or, worse, clawing my face with her talons, something that has happened one too many times before. Thanks to lasers, I don't have the scars to prove it.

"Mrs. Yarrow," I tell her in my most stern voice. "Please, come with me."

She doesn't hear me. She tries to reach for Doc, who has sidestepped his way toward the door. His glasses are askew, and he readjusts them now. The front of his shirt is scrunched up, and I mentally shudder at the fact that she'd almost done that to my shirt.

"Mrs. Yarrow," I nearly shout at her, but it's as if she's wearing ear plugs and a blindfold — she neither sees nor hears me. Her focus is all on Doc. Rude.

"Dr. Moretti," I say to Doc, "Mrs. Foster is ready in Exam Room 2. She's the one with carpal tunnel syndrome and would like you to see her ASAP, remember?"

There is no "Mrs. Foster," but Mrs. Yarrow doesn't need to know that. Doc takes the hint. He nods. "Right, yes, I'll see to her immediately. Thanks, Erin."

I don't respond because Mrs. Yarrow is trying to jump onto Doc, but he all but leaps out of the room, and Sadie closes the door with a loud bang. I glare at her. Seriously?

"Sorry," Sadie whispers.

I roll my eyes, making sure Sadie sees my doing it. I reach down and grab Mrs. Yarrow by her wrist and yank her up. I try to do it as gently as I can, to avoid a lawsuit and a swipe at the face, but she's ten times heavier than anyone should be, and I don't have time for this shit.

She finally looks at me, her hazel eyes wide. Her smokey eye makeup is smudged, and her light brown updo has loosened in its chignon. I drop her wrist in disgust: you would never catch me pregnant or chasing after a man, or, God forbid, both at the same time.

I surreptitiously wipe my hand on the back of my skirt. I plaster on a smile and adjust my features so that they are dialed to the appropriate look that conveys both compassion and sympathy in one. "Mrs. Yarrow, are you alright?" I ask her in a soft tone, even though I could care less and am mentally playing Subway Surfers right now.

Apparently, though, my question seems to snap her out of it. She blinks, and she stumbles. I don't reach out to help her. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just did that."

Believe you me, you just did, and none of us are going to forget it. "Pregnancy can be a rollercoaster of emotions, but what matters is that you're safe with us," I say. I want to vomit.

Mrs. Yarrow nods. "Yes, yes, thank you. I think I need to lie down."

"Why don't you come with me," I say. "Sadie has prepared a bed for you in one of the recovery rooms. You can stay there until you feel better. Let me also bring you cookies and tea."

Before I know what's happening, Mrs. Yarrow grasps my hands. The diamond of her diamond ring is large and glints in my eye, but it's not as sparkly as the one I had made last night. "Thank you, Erin," she says. "That would be lovely."

I politely but firmly disentangle my hands from Mrs. Yarrow. I wave for her to leave the room first before I follow suit. As we walk down the hall, passing by the empty Exam Rooms, she doesn't stumble, but she does walk slowly, and my hands itch to push her.

Eventually, we end up in Recovery Room 12 where Sadie has dimmed the lighting so only a faint orange glow warms the interior of the room; she comes in, her arms full with more fluffy pillows for the lone bed that stands in the corner, pushed up against the wall. There are three Recovery Rooms in the office for any preggo to lie down and have a minute, if they need it.

I guide Mrs. Yarrow to the bed where she takes off her heels and lies down. Her stomach juts out into the air like a giant wart. She slides under the covers, pulling them up to her chin, and I fluff up the pillows to create a kind of halo around her head. I revel in the image in my brain where I take a pillow and press it against her face so I can no longer see her, hear her, or need to attend to her.

My smile is genuine when I gaze down at her. "I'll bring the cookies and tea shortly. Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Yarrow?"

She smiles up at me, thinking the smile is for her comfort, and says, "Will Dr. Moretti be alright? My goodness, Billy!"

No, you'll never be able to recover from this embarrassment. "Dr. Moretti has worked in the fields for over twenty years. I promise you, Mrs. Yarrow, he has seen everything." Billy, I assume, is her husband. Ex-husband. For that, I don't care to have anything to say, so I don't.

"That's a relief," she says.

"You get some rest now. I'll be back soon."

"Thank you so much, Erin. You have been so kind. You and Sadie, both."

One good deed for the day — done. "Of course, Mrs. Yarrow," I say, walking toward the door. I close it quietly behind me.

"Bitch," I mutter as I make my way to the staff room for the cookies and tea. Not even so much as a sorry.