The instant the red ruby flared, he leaned in and murmured, “Isn’t this enough?” I couldn’t nod. The figure—₩300,000—shivered in my head.
What I had wanted was a ₩100 million matching set. Three-carat diamonds, platinum benchmark, discreet engraving inside. That number was the certainty I craved. I longed to witness the moment he slammed a slice of his fortune down for me—not the ring itself, but the proof of how much he feared losing me.
When I Became a Number
Why ₩100 million? Because the terror he’d feel when that money vanished was the signal I wanted.
If he can drop ₩100 million and stay unruffled, then I’m just a ₩100 million toy, nothing more.
The moment I saw the ruby ring, I ran the silent math: loan interest, the penalty for breaking my fixed deposit, the figure he earns every month. ₩300,000 was an amount he could absorb. This wasn’t a relationship; it was a negotiation.
Her ₩300 Million Victoria
Ji-seon said, “I received a ₩300 million Victoria-style diamond.” She offered a small, proud smile and extended her snow-white hand.
I stared for a long time. There was something odd in her eyes—like she was flashing a receipt for her own ransom rather than showing off a ring.
Ji-seon’s husband had also gifted her a Costa Rican honeymoon: plane tickets, a private resort, a yacht. She trembled. “I spent the whole day apologizing—it felt too extravagant.”
That tremor was the power she had wanted.
The Trap of the Ceremonial Gift
Why do we lust after ruinously expensive presents? Psychologists call it a deficit of certainty. When we’re starved of proof that we are loved, we hunt for evidence converted into financial sacrifice:
You spent money; the money is gone; therefore, you love me.
The reason it must be ₩100 million is darker still. For most, it is an amount one absolutely cannot afford to lose. When you force someone to risk what they refuse to lose, you feel they have sacrificed something for you. The gift becomes a hostage drama.
A Confession Holding an Axe
I pulled out my wallet. “If it’s ₩300,000, I’ll add half. Let’s raise it to ₩100 million.”
He stared. “I’ll buy it. But why ₩100 million?”
I couldn’t answer.
Because that was the price tag I had put on our relationship.
Replace the ruby with a ₩100 million diamond, and he would spend years repaying ₩3 million a month. That pain was the testament of love I desired.
But the decision tasted like guilt.
I didn’t want to push him into danger; I only wanted proof he would leap into danger for me. Yet I didn’t want the danger to be real. Is that love? Or am I simply intoxicated by the prospect of his fear?
Do You Want to Buy Love—or Bankrupt Someone?
Days later he arrived with the ₩100 million diamond.
“I bought it. The one you wanted.”
I studied the ring. “What did you give up for this?”
He was silent for a long time. “My severance pay. And a piece of land my father left me.”
My breath caught.
This wasn’t what I had wanted.
The ₩100 million diamond was no longer proof of love; it was proof of ruin. I set the ring down.
“What I wanted wasn’t ₩100 million. I wanted the money you were ready to spend even if it killed you.”
Right now, what figure are you expecting from someone?
Is that number the depth of the love you crave—or their bankruptcy?