Page 17 of Claimed By Desire

I close the lid and shove it away.

There’s a vase of flowers on the table beside the box. They’re fresh and pretty, a mix of pale white and pink roses, and they small amazing. I flip open the card.To my future wife. From Adriano.

It’s the third arrangement he’s sent this week.

“For a girl getting showered in gifts, you look absolutely miserable,” Lev says as he breezes past me on the way to the liquor cabinet in the back of the dining room.

“It’s too much stuff,” I tell him as he gets out a bottle of vodka. “And isn’t it a little early to be drinking?”

“Never too early in our line of work,” he says, pouring himself a little measure in a crystal tumbler. “What else did the guy send?”

“This is thee fifth dress,” I say, nudging the box toward him. He peeks inside and doesn’t seem impressed. “There are three necklaces, too many flowers, a few pairs of earrings, six bracelets, two pairs of shoes, and—“ I stop myself before I mention the five pairs of lacy underwear. “And it’s just too much,” I say instead.

“Life is so hard for you.” Lev grins as he sits at the table and pulls the flowers over to himself. “What should we do with these?”

“I was thinking the garbage.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

“I’m serious. What else should I do? Donate this stuff?”

“Or you can just keep it.”

“I don’t want his presents,” I say, not even sure why I’m having such a visceral reaction.

It’s not like they’re bad gifts. Maybe the underwear’s a bit much and a little too suggestive—but we are engaged and we are going to be married, and maybe it makes sense to start breaking the ice a little bit with some only slightly racy undies.

But for whatever reason, the gifts repulse me. I know it’s sweet that he’s thinking of me and trying to do what he can to ease this weird transition—but it’s not like he’s calling all the time or something.

Instead of having a conversation with me, he just sends these gifts.

Like it doesn’t matterwhoI am.

To Adriano, I’m just a name, just a girl called Natalya Federov, and all the social and business ties that come with that name. But he doesn’t care who I am.

Like for example, I’d never in a million years wear half the stuff he sent me. Not that it matters—it’s still nice he did it—but the point is, he has no clue what I like.

Because he hasn’t tried to get to know me.

He’s just sending presents like he’s trying to buy my affection, without actually caring who he’s trying to win over.

Maybe I’m being dramatic, but it feels sketchy and wrong.

“Look, I get it,” Lev says as he plucks a rose from the bouquet and holds it under his nose. “This whole thing is new and uncomfortable. You’re two strangers getting hitched and that’s gonna be awkward at first. But I think the guy’s trying, right? I mean, he’s sending all this stuff.”

“Yeah, he’s sending all this stuff,” I echo, staring at the boxes. Big, empty boxes, as far as I’m concerned, which only makes me feel guilty for being so ungrateful and terrible, and makes everything worse.

“Just hold onto everything, okay? Make him feel appreciated. You don’t ever have to wear it, but if he sees all the stuff he sent you in your closet, maybe that’ll make him feel good.” Lev throws back his vodka and get sot his feet.

“Yeah, I should,” I say even though I’m wondering: what about makingmefeel appreciated?

But that’s what the gifts are for, and the cycle of self loathing continues.

“You’ll be alright,” Lev says, not sounding very convincing, and he heads off before I can tell him that no, I probably won’t.

Once he’s gone, I sit with the flowers for a few more minutes, feeling utterly miserable, before I can’t take it anymore.

I hop to my feet, shove the vase and the flowers into the dress box, getting water all over everything, and carry it out through the kitchen. The outdoor trashcans are hidden in a small alleyway alcove on the side of hte house, and th elid makes a satisfying bang when I throw it open.

---