The Choices
Early the next day, Mr. Roman, a heavy-set olive-skinned man, examined my jewelry, affixing a certificate of authenticity and a minimum price to each. “A pity you had Dame Anastasia’s necklace cut up, now that I consider it. It would have fetched a good price from the notoriety alone. But the rest of these are in as good a condition as when I made them.”
“Wait,” I said. “Isn’t this moonstone hers?”
“No,” he said. “I persuaded your husband to buy mine instead. It’s as real as anything else you have here.”
Tony’s face as he placed the moonstone around my neck appeared before me. I pushed the memory away. He’d bought it to help me bear an heir, never knowing of my morning tea.
I couldn’t allow myself to feel anything for him; it made things too difficult. “Do you believe the
