It was impulsive, reckless, and made absolutely no sense.

Which meant, of course, it was the most Rafe thing you’d ever experienced.

One minute, you were splayed bare in his bed, head spinning from how hard you'd been dicked down by your boyfriend. The next, he was asking you to marry him.

At first, you thought he was joking. Or maybe you hallucinated it from how stupid he'd made you. But he was dead serious.

"Why should we wait?" He mumbled against your bare shoulder. "I love you. You love me. Let's get fuckin'... married."

Which was exactly how you ended up here, less than an hour later—standing in the most expensive jewelry store on Figure Eight, Rafe leaning on the counter like he owned the place, flashing his signature smirk at the poor saleswoman who looked like she might faint at the sight of his black card.

“Show me the best you’ve got,” he drawled, drumming his fingers on the glass. “Money’s not an issue for my girl.”

"Rafe, I don't need—" You looked up at him, shy.

He turned to you with a chuckle. “Baby, you’re about to have my last name. You think I’m letting you walk around with anything less than a rock?”

Before you could argue, the saleswoman pulled out a velvet tray with five gigantic diamond rings, and you felt your stomach flip.

Big. Sparkling. Absolutely absurd.

Rafe hummed, reaching out to pick one up. “Hmm. Not bad.” He glanced at you, eyes gleaming. “Try it on.”

“Rafe—”

“Come on, baby. Try. For me.”

You sighed, but let him slide the ring onto your finger. It was heavy. Too much. It screamed Figure Eight wealth, screamed Rafe Cameron.

But—god.

It looked good.

Rafe exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he studied your hand. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I was right. You were made for this.”

You rolled your eyes, but warmth curled in your stomach.

The saleswoman cleared her throat. “This is one of our nicest pieces, the diamond is almost eight carats, a pure gold band, and—”

“We’ll take it,” Rafe cut in smoothly.