My Customer Dropped A Heavy Gold Ring—And Changed My Life Forever

Part 2

The two remaining enforcers hesitated, their eyes darting from their fallen companion to the man standing calmly in the center of the room.

Craig scrambled to his feet, spitting blood onto the rush mats and pulling a long, rusted blade from his boot.

He shrieked at them to kill him, but his voice cracked with panic.

The tall man didn’t flinch or reach for a weapon of his own.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy object that glinted sharply in the dim light.

He stepped forward, grabbed Craig by the throat, and slammed him hard against the nearest structural pillar.

The rusted blade clattered uselessly to the floorboards.

He pressed the object—a heavy gold signet ring—directly beneath Craig’s left eye, grinding the deeply engraved crest into his skin.

He hissed at Craig to look at it, his voice dropping into a register of pure, terrifying authority that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

Craig thrashed, gasping for air, but his eyes locked onto the roaring lion and crown of thorns.

It was the unmistakable, terrifying crest of the Duke of Somerset.

Craig’s face drained of color, his gin-fueled rage evaporating into abject, trembling terror.

To draw a blade on a peer of the realm was an automatic death sentence.

He choked out a desperate apology, dropping his hands entirely and pleading for his life.

The Duke whispered a warning, promising to have him chained to the hull of a merchant ship if he ever returned to this tavern.

Craig sobbed an agreement, and the Duke let him drop to his knees in a coughing fit.

The remaining enforcers scrambled for the door, practically tearing it off its hinges to escape into the fog.

Craig crawled blindly after them, not daring to look back at the man who had just dismantled his entire operation in sixty seconds.

The tavern was dead silent.

The patrons who hadn’t already fled were frozen in their seats, staring at the man in the cheap canvas coat holding a ring worth more than our entire town.

The Duke slowly lowered his hand, turning to face me.

My torn collar hung loosely against my collarbone, but I wasn’t looking at the fleeing men.

I was staring directly at his hand, feeling my stomach twist into a cold, sickening knot.

He took a step toward me, opening his mouth to explain, but my face contorted into an expression of profound, crushing disgust.

I snapped at him not to speak to me, my voice shaking with a rage so pure it made the air vibrate between us.

He tried to tell me he had to stop them, that they were going to hurt me.

I screamed that this happened every week, slamming my palms down on the bar as tears of hot anger spilled over my eyelashes.

I told him he didn’t get to play the hero with his magic gold ring and leave us to clean up the mess.

I picked up my dirty rag and threw it hard against his chest, leaving a wet stain on his white shirt.

I told him to take his deaf brother and go back to his palace, because we didn’t need his charity or his violent little games.

He stood there in absolute silence, the adrenaline draining from his face.

Slowly, deliberately, he placed the heavy gold signet ring—the symbol of his wealth and power—on the scarred wood of the bar.

He told me he wasn’t playing a game, his voice barely a whisper, before turning to walk toward the stairs.

I stared at the heavy gold crest gleaming on the stained wood, wondering if I should throw it into the harbor or run after him.