Lately, Patrick had become distant. Once open and full of laughter, now he clung to his phone, stayed late in his study, and shut his laptop the moment I walked in. I told myself it was just work stress—but the silence between us grew louder.
Then, one morning, my car was low on gas. Patrick handed me his keys, saying, “Take mine, it’s full.” A kind gesture… until I slid into his seat and found a velvet box under it. Inside was a delicate ring I’d never seen before. Not mine—but oddly familiar.
My heart sank. Was he cheating? Planning to leave me? My 30th birthday was coming up—was the surprise he hinted at for someone else?
Furious and desperate, I soaked the ring in habanero sauce, let it dry, and put it back. Let her feel the sting.
That night, Patrick left again, claiming he had to help his mom. I didn’t believe him. But before I could call to check, my best friend Monica called—screaming in pain. “My hand’s on fire! That ring Patrick showed me—what the hell?”
Monica?
I froze. “Why were you with Patrick?”
A pause. Then, “We were planning your surprise party. The ring’s yours. It’s a family heirloom. He just wanted my opinion before giving it to you.”
I felt the floor drop from under me.
Later, when they showed up, I confessed everything—my doubts, the hot sauce, the accusations. Patrick chuckled, “You always had fire in you.” Monica winced, still recovering, but forgave me with a laugh.
And then Patrick handed me the box again. “Early birthday gift,” he smiled.
The ring now shimmered with truth, not suspicion. I’d nearly ruined everything—but love, it turns out, can survive even a little heat.
