Chapter 3 The Wedding Ring in My Stomach

# Chapter 3: The Wedding Ring in My Stomach

The charges against me were dropped the next morning. DNA tests confirmed that Rowan was indeed alive, leaving the prosecution with an impossible case. I was released into Rowan's custody under the condition that I continue psychiatric treatment as an outpatient. The body found in our home remains unidentified—a mystery that seems to concern everyone but Rowan.

"You need rest," he tells me as we enter our house—a modernist structure of glass and steel that feels both familiar and strange. "The doctors say you've experienced a psychotic break."

I stand in the entryway, unable to move further. This is where it happened. Where I stabbed... someone. The pristine white floors show no trace of the blood that filled my nightmares.

"How can you bring me back here?" I whisper. "After what I did—or thought I did?"

Rowan's expression softens. He reaches for me, then seems to think better of it, letting his hand fall back to his side. "This is your home, Faye. Our home. The best place for you to recover."

"Recover what? My sanity? My memories?" I step past him into the living room, where minimalist furniture frames a spectacular view of the city below. "I still remember killing you. Those memories haven't gone anywhere just because you walked into that courtroom."

"Memory is malleable," he says, slipping into the clinical tone he uses when discussing his research. "What we remember isn't always what happened."

"Is that why I remember being allergic to tattoo ink? Why I have no tattoo despite your convenient video evidence?" I touch my collarbone again, a gesture that's become a nervous habit. "Why I remember our honeymoon in Italy, not Thailand?"

He sighs. "We never went to Italy, Faye. And your tattoo was removed last year after—" he hesitates. "After you decided it reminded you of a difficult time in our relationship."

"Convenient explanations for everything." I move toward the kitchen, needing space. "What about the calendar showing 2023?"

"The video timestamp was wrong. Technology glitch." He follows, keeping a careful distance. "Faye, please. You're home now. You're safe."

But I don't feel safe. Not with these fractured memories, not with Rowan watching me like I might shatter at any moment, not in this house where someone—if not Rowan—died violently.

The kitchen is immaculate, all stainless steel and white marble. I open the refrigerator, surprised to find it fully stocked. "You've been grocery shopping while your wife was in jail for your murder?"

"The housekeeper handles it." He leans against the counter. "Are you hungry?"

I am, suddenly and intensely. I haven't had a proper meal since before the trial began. I grab an apple, biting into it without bothering to wash it first. The sharp sweetness floods my mouth, and for a moment, everything feels almost normal.

Then the pain hits.

It starts in my stomach—a twisting, grinding sensation that doubles me over. The apple falls from my hand, rolling across the pristine floor as I clutch the counter for support.

"Faye?" Rowan is beside me instantly, one arm around my waist. "What's wrong?"

I can't answer. The pain intensifies, radiating through my abdomen in waves that leave me gasping. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

"Hospital," I manage to choke out before my knees buckle.

I'm only vaguely aware of Rowan carrying me to the car, of the frantic drive through city streets, of being rushed into an emergency room. Words float around me—"acute abdominal distress," "possible obstruction," "immediate surgery"—but the pain consumes everything, pulling me into darkness.

When I wake, the sterile scent of hospital disinfectant fills my nostrils. Different from Blackwood Psychiatric Hospital, but familiar in its clinical efficiency. A monitor beeps steadily beside me, tracking my heartbeat. My abdomen feels tender, bandaged.

"You're awake." Rowan sits in a chair beside my bed, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hasn't slept. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone took a blender to my insides," I croak, my throat dry. "What happened?"

He helps me sip water through a straw before answering. "They had to perform emergency surgery. There was an... obstruction."

Something in his tone makes me wary. "What kind of obstruction?"

Before he can answer, the door opens and a doctor enters—a tall woman with cropped silver hair and sharp eyes. Dr. Chen, according to her name tag.

"Mrs. Harlow," she says briskly. "Good to see you conscious. You gave us quite a scare."

"What was wrong with me?" I ask directly.

Dr. Chen glances at Rowan before responding. "We found a foreign object lodged in your stomach lining. It appears to have been there for some time, causing progressive inflammation that finally resulted in the acute pain you experienced."

"A foreign object?" I repeat. "What does that mean? Like I swallowed something?"

She nods. "Precisely. Though 'swallowed' may not be the right term. The object shows signs of having been surgically implanted."

The room seems to tilt around me. "Someone put something inside me? Without my knowledge?"

"Not necessarily without your knowledge," Dr. Chen says carefully. "Many patients don't recall procedures performed under anesthesia or during periods of psychological distress."

Rowan shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Faye, there's something you should see."

He reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic container. Inside, gleaming under the harsh hospital lights, is a ring—a stunning blue diamond set in platinum, unlike any piece of jewelry I remember owning.

"This is what they found inside you," he says quietly.

I stare at the container, unable to process what I'm seeing. "That's... impossible. How would a ring get inside me?"

"That's what we'd like to understand," Dr. Chen says. "The placement suggests deliberate insertion, not accidental ingestion. There's a small surgical scar that had healed over it."

My hand moves instinctively to my abdomen, feeling the fresh bandages there. "I don't understand. I never had surgery before this."

"Actually," Rowan interjects, "you had a minor procedure eight months ago. Outpatient. You were home the same day."

"For what?"

"You were having abdominal pain then too. The doctors found nothing." He won't meet my eyes. "At least, that's what they told us."

Dr. Chen clears her throat. "I'll give you two some privacy. Dr. Harlow, remember what we discussed about not overwhelming the patient."

After she leaves, I fix Rowan with a hard stare. "What aren't you telling me?"

Instead of answering, he hands me the container. "Look at the inside of the band."

With shaking hands, I open the container and carefully extract the ring. It's heavier than it looks, the blue diamond catching light in hypnotic patterns. I turn it to examine the inner band, where an inscription is clearly visible:

*Forever Yours - 07.09.2023*

A date that hasn't happened yet. A wedding date that isn't ours.

"This isn't my ring," I say flatly. "Our anniversary is October 18th. And we got married in 2021, not 2023."

Rowan takes a deep breath. "Faye, we're not married yet. Legally, I mean."

The monitor beside me registers my spike in heart rate. "What are you talking about? We've been married for almost two years."

"We've been engaged for two years," he corrects gently. "The wedding is planned for next summer. July 9th, 2023."

I shake my head, the movement making me dizzy. "No. No, I remember our wedding. The botanical garden. My cream lace dress. Your mother's pearl cufflinks."

"Those are details we discussed for our future wedding," Rowan says. "We visited the botanical garden last spring to reserve it. You showed me pictures of that dress from a bridal magazine. My mother promised her cufflinks as your 'something borrowed.'"

"If we're not married, why do I have your last name? Why do the hospital records say 'Mrs. Harlow'?"

He hesitates. "You changed your name socially after we got engaged. You said you didn't want to wait for the paperwork. Professionally, you still use your maiden name."

None of this makes sense. I have memories—vivid, detailed memories—of our wedding day. The taste of champagne, the weight of the ring sliding onto my finger, the specific vows we exchanged.

But I also have memories of killing Rowan, who is very much alive beside me.

"Who am I?" I whisper, more to myself than to him. "If my memories are false, who am I really?"

Rowan reaches for my hand, then stops himself again. This hesitation, this careful distance he maintains—it speaks volumes.

"You're Dr. Faye Harlow, soon to be officially Faye Harlow. Brilliant neuropsychologist. My fiancée. You've just been... unwell."

I stare at the ring in my palm, its blue diamond almost glowing under the hospital lights. "And this? How did your engagement ring end up surgically implanted in my stomach?"

"That's not my ring," he says quietly. "I've never seen it before."

As if on cue, the door opens again. But instead of Dr. Chen, a different doctor enters—an older man with a gaunt face and sharp, assessing eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His name tag reads "Dr. Norris."

"Mrs. Harlow," he says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "I'm glad to see you recovering well."

Rowan stands abruptly. "We weren't informed you would be visiting."

"Standard follow-up," Dr. Norris replies smoothly, though something in the way the two men look at each other suggests this is anything but standard. "I was consulted on the surgical removal of the foreign object."

He turns to me. "An extraordinary case. In my thirty years of practice, I've never seen anything quite like it."

"Did you perform the surgery?" I ask.

"No, that was Dr. Reyes. I merely observed and consulted." He steps closer, examining the ring still in my palm. "Fascinating artifact. May I?"

Before I can respond, he carefully takes the container from the bedside table, extracting a pair of tweezers from his pocket. With practiced precision, he lifts the ring and holds it to the light.

"Beautiful craftsmanship. The setting is quite unusual—see how the prongs are designed to..." He trails off, glancing at Rowan, who gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Dr. Norris clears his throat. "Well, the important thing is that it's been removed safely."

He returns the ring to its container but, as he places it back on the table, leans close to my ear.

"Dr. Norris insisted... you must open the ring box yourself," he whispers, his breath warm against my skin.

"What?" I pull back, staring at him. "What ring box?"

His expression doesn't change, but his eyes flick meaningfully to the blue diamond. "Rest well, Mrs. Harlow. I'm sure we'll speak again soon."

After he leaves, I turn to Rowan. "What was that about? What ring box?"

He shrugs, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him. "I have no idea. Hospital staff can be eccentric."

I look down at the ring container, studying the blue diamond more carefully. It's not just a stone set in a band—it's designed like a miniature box, the diamond itself forming a tiny lid.

"Rowan," I say slowly, "this isn't just a ring. It's a container."

His face pales. "Faye, don't—"

But I'm already working my fingernail under the edge of the setting. With a faint click, the blue diamond top lifts away from the band, revealing a hollow interior.

Inside, no larger than a grain of rice, is a metallic object—a microchip of some kind, gleaming silver against the platinum.

"What is this?" I whisper, looking up at Rowan. The fear in his eyes answers before his words can.

"Something you weren't supposed to find," he says softly. "Not yet."