“Father wanted to extend his apologies for not giving it to you on your eighteenth instead,” Vera said. “I agree with him. It was your mother’s ring, and I know how important it was to you.”
Important was putting it lightly. My chest still burned with the memory of that day six years ago on my eighteenth birthday, when my father had given Vera—who wasn’t even eighteen yet, and her birthday was nowhere near mine—the ring.
“But,” Vera added, “he also hopes the ring reminds you who you truly are. A Ravenwood.”
I almost laughed out loud. How could I even acknowledge such words? It was all bullshit, anyway. I’d stopped being a Ravenwood the moment my father had chosen Mason and Vera over his own daughter.
Without a word, I turned to leave, slipping the ring onto my finger. But
