I don't move for a long time after Riven finally leaves.
The building settles around me in the familiar, end-of-day way it always does after five, as if it's exhaling now that most of the people are gone. Footsteps fade down the hallway. Doors close with dull, final thuds. Somewhere above me, the HVAC system sighs and kicks into a lower register, like it's clocking out too.
The ring stays quiet. Like it's biding its time until I phrase the wrong thought badly enough to invite a response.
I don't give it the satisfaction.
Instead, I let my attention drift back to the archival box on my desk, to the perfectly ordinary lid that looks exactly like dozens of others I've handled over the years. Acid-free cardboard. A typed label. No glowing runes or ominous markings. No helpful do not open unless you enjoy existential consequences sticker to make this easier.
I hate it.
I slide the box into my cabinet and lock it, even though I know the gesture is mostly for my own benefit. If something wanted to get out, a flimsy office lock wouldn't stop it. Still, the click is grounding. It gives my hands something to do.
I check the time.
5:02.
I have an hour and fifty-eight minutes to decide whether I'm about to ruin my own life outright or just complicate it irreversibly, which somehow feels like the more likely option.
The word boyfriend replays in my head like a skipped record. Riven had told me to bring my new boyfriend.
I don't have a boyfriend. I barely have a friend.
I have Monica, who swears constantly and treats bureaucracy like a hostile animal that can be handled safely as long as you know where its teeth are. She once talked a donor down from a full meltdown using nothing but sarcasm and a granola bar, and if there's a correct way to handle a crisis, she will find it. If there isn't, she'll invent one without apologizing for it.
And I have Evander, who is deeply normal in the way only someone profoundly not normal can be. He drinks tea that smells like smoke and cloves, owns more old books than furniture, and once casually mentioned that the concept of ownership was culturally relative in a way that made me stop asking follow-up questions for my own peace of mind.
But boyfriend?
I sniff myself, immediately aware of how ridiculous the motion is and faintly grateful that there's no one around to witness it.
That's not a normal observation to make about someone, and the fact that it landed hard enough for me to still be thinking about it makes my skin warm with self-consciousness.
I live at Evander's place now. Of course I must smell like him now. Still, enough for Riven to notice?
I'm thinking about this too much.
Trying to recall Evander's scent only makes things worse, the memory tangling itself up with the rest of last night in a way that sends heat creeping further to my face. The way the air feels around him sometimes, dense and pressurized, like standing too close to a storm cell that hasn't decided whether it's going to break.
I rub my temples and exhale slowly.
This is ridiculous.
I pull out my phone and open my messages, scrolling just long enough for the familiar names to ground me.
Monica is right there. Bright. Reliable. A known quantity.
She'll believe me, even if she doesn't believe this. And she was hurt that I hadn't asked her to help me move. She'd hidden it behind a little drama, but with the ring, I could still feel the bruise underneath.
She'll ask practical questions. She'll make jokes at inappropriate moments. She'll keep the conversation tethered to reality instead of letting it drift into whatever shape it wants to take when I'm alone with it and my thoughts start feeding on each other.
She's safe.
My thumb hesitates anyway, hovering over Evander's name for half a second longer than it should.
There's a strange pull to him that I don't quite trust or understand, something that's made choosing him feel too easy lately. No reason I can point to or that sticks out just… Something telling me to be careful.
Weeks, not years, my brain supplies helpfully. A person I barely know. A person I don't need to burden with jewelry that won't come off and men who appear out of dreams and say things they shouldn't know.
My gaze drifts to the window.
There was a time when this wouldn't have been a decision.
Not because it would have been easier, but because it would have already been answered.
I would have gone to Rowan.
That's the realization that hurts.
Not the person missing from my life. The certainty of having someone there.
For most of my life, when something went wrong in a way I couldn't explain, there had been someone who already knew how to stand next to me in it. Someone who didn't need preamble or careful wording or the constant internal calculation of how much of myself was too much to show.
I hadn't needed to weigh options. I hadn't needed to wonder who I was allowed to lean on.
That kind of intimacy doesn't just disappear. It leaves a vacancy nothing else quite fits, no matter how carefully you try to work around it.
The thought of rebuilding that kind of trust with someone else makes my heart sink. The repetition. The years of shared context. The sheer amount of time it would take just to get back to neutral.
This is just grief, I remind myself. The grief of losing someone close to me in such an earth shattering way.
Which means that every choice I make now is deliberate. Careful. Smaller.
Safer.
I glance back toward the hallway, already picturing Monica's familiar expression, the concern she tries to soften with humor when she knows something's wrong.
This isn't the same thing. And I realize I don't want it to be either.
It's what I have and it's new and different.
And right now, it's enough.
I lock my phone before I can second-guess myself.
"Hey," I call as I see her passing my door, already halfway out of my chair. "Are you busy?"
Monica peeks into my office like she's sharing a conspiracy. "Define busy."
"I need you," I say. "Like… right now."
Her expression sharpens instantly.
"I'm fine," I add too quickly. "I just—can I tell you something? Please."
She's already calling out to Harold that she's clocked out before she steps inside and locks the door behind her. The click echoes louder than it should in the suddenly quiet room.
She turns slowly, taking in my face, my posture, the way I'm rubbing my thumb against the ring like I'm trying to wear it down through sheer friction.
The look on her face — the one where a joke pauses halfway to her mouth — makes something tight and uncomfortable twist in my chest.
This is usually the part where I back out. Where I deflect with humor or minimize things until they feel manageable again. Where I pretend I didn't just pull her in here like the building was on fire.
But lying feels different now. Heavier. With literal consequences.
"Okay," she says carefully, dragging a chair closer and sitting down in front of me. "You have my undivided attention, babe."
I swallow.
"It's still stuck," I say, lifting my hand. The ring gives an indignant squeeze, but it doesn't argue.
Her shoulders drop just a fraction.
"…Damn," she mutters. "I was really hoping you'd pried that thing off already."
"You know I tried."
She leans closer, eyes narrowing as she studies the ring.
"It's gotten worse," I say, and the admission lands more serious than I expect. "Or at least… more complicated."
Monica straightens slightly. "How is that even possible?"
I hesitate, feeling the edge of the moment sharpen.
This is the point of no return.
"It reacts to lying," I say finally. "Not vibes. Not intuition. It's like a switch flipping in my head the moment something doesn't line up. If someone's lying, I can see the wrongness. If they're telling the truth, everything clicks. All the time. Whether I want it to or not."
"I have 8 toes" She says suddenly.
"Lie," I say. I should have expected this.
"My new shoes are yellow."
"Lie"
"My new boyfriend drives a Honda"
I squint my eyes. "True. We'll talk about that later."
She blinks. "That's… oh my god. This is incredible. How long has this been going on?"
"Since the first day. It was a little confusing at first, but it's developed quite the personality since then." I say giving the ring a small glare.
Monica brings her hand to her mouth with enough drama to rival a soap opera star. "Oh my God, Evie… Is that how you found—"
I nod with a deep sigh.
She trails off, but I don't need her to finish. I know she's referring to the Ash/ Rowan situation.
"It also doesn't let me lie," I continue not wanting to get derailed by that again. "At all. Even small white lies."
Her eyebrows lift. "That explains why you told Janet her haircut looked structurally unsound."
"That was accurate."
"I know," she snorts. "But it did start to worry me."
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, thin and shaky but real, and the tension in my shoulders eases just enough to breathe again.
"Things were already strange," I say. "And then Riven showed up."
She rolls her eyes like someone who's spent far too long in customer service.
"But it didn't look like Riven," I continue. "He was taller. Bigger. Long hair. Nice eyes."
Monica straightens, serious again. "Okay, now you've lost me."
"He doesn't look like Riven anymore," I say. "But it's him. I can see him now. The ring won't let me see whatever he was hiding behind anymore."
Her gaze snaps to my hand.
"Some kind of glamour, he said," I finish.
We both go quiet.
She has the look she gets when she's fallen too deep into a Reddit thread and everything is suddenly lining up in the worst possible way.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I ignore it.
Monica drags a hand down her face. "Evie. Are you telling me you have a magic ring that exposes affairs, cuts off parasitic friendships, and lets you see through hot guy disguises?"
"That… kind of."
"And you can't take it off."
"Correct."
She nods immediately. "That explains the twerp."
"The twerp?" I blink. "Evander?"
"You kept saying the same kinds of things about him," she says. "But I am telling you Evie, I have never been more concerned about your sanity. So he must have one of those glamour things too, right?"
My stomach drops.
Of course.
Of course Evander must have some kind of glamour. I hadn't considered it before, partly because Monica and I don't exactly have the same taste, but also because I'd taken my own reaction at face value. Still, we both have eyes, and there isn't a world where even Monica could look at Evander and genuinely call him a twerp. The realization makes me feel a little stupid for not clocking it immediately.
Monica has launched into a half-serious explanation about inpatient facilities, mentioning that she might have texted Alex from admissions just to have information on hand, and the sheer absurdity of it all makes me laugh again.
"How is me finding someone attractive less believable than a magic ring?" I ask.
"Oh honey," she says gently. "The version of him I saw was unsettling enough that a magic ring honestly felt like the more reasonable explanation."
The sympathy on her face is ridiculous enough to break the moment, and I end up laughing in earnest.
I tell her everything else. The donation. The object changing shape. Riven taking the ring off and how it snapped right back into place and wanting to talk more somewhere more secure, whatever that means.
Her mind clicks into motion immediately, questions stacking neatly on top of each other. Some I can answer but others I file away for later when I go meet Riven.
When I finish, I clear my throat.
"So. I have a favor."
She doesn't hesitate. "Do you want me to drive, or should we take two cars and park on opposite ends of the building so it's harder for potential kidnappers to chase us?"
The certainty in her voice lands heavier than reassurance.
It reminds me that I'm allowed to need people.
I let out the longest breath I've taken all day.
My phone buzzes again.
I glance down despite myself.
Evander:Any chance you're free for dinner tonight?
The timing is so bad it almost makes me laugh.
Monica notices my expression. "Who's that?"
"The twerp," I say, then remember everything all at once — the glamour, the ring, the implications — and feel the smile slide off my face.
She studies me for a moment, then nods. "That's a tomorrow problem."
She grabs her bag, already moving. "We've got to go if we're going to meet this body snatcher."
I follow her out feeling so confident in my decision that it's hard to keep the smile off my face, even with all the uncertainty that's been aimed my way lately.