6. Natalya

Chapter 6

Natalya

I open the box and stare down at the beautiful Givenchy dress.

It’s two pieces, light blue, with simple pale pink jewel work along the chest and down the side of the skirt. The material looks light but is soft to the touch, and I’m pretty sure it would show off my belly if I put it on.

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 matter who I 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 making me feel 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.

I slam the whole mess inside and slam the lid closed on top of it.

I stand there, waiting to feel better.

But I don’t. Instead, I just feel even worse.

Now, not only am I ungrateful, but I just ruined and trashed an expensive dress that I could’ve donated instead.

I stomp back to the house and step into the kitchen, but come up short when I find Alex standing against the counter, watching me with that emotionless stare of his.

It sends a shiver down my spine.

He’s in a t-shirt, tight and black, and a pair of dark ripped jeans. A simple gold chain’s tcuked in and hidden away, though I know it has a little cross at the end. I asked him one time why he always wore it, and he just told me to mind my own business, and I haven’t bothered asking since.

“Throwing something out?” he asks.

“I didn’t know you were stalking me.”

He tilts his head. “I saw you carrying that box outside and heard the cans open.”

“Just leave me alone, okay?”

“If that was the stuff your future husband sent?—“

“I can do whatever I want with my own gifts,” I say, snapping at him harder than I should, but this is a little much even for him. “Seriously Alex, since when did you care what I do?”

His jaw works like he’s frustrated. Is that a little bit of emotion from the robot? I grin viciously, happy that I’m getting under his skin, and feeling like a total asshole for it, but still. Sometimes I think Alex doesn’t have actual feelings?—

Except I got a glimpse of them, back in Paris.

He was all passion that night. Obsessive, intense, loving, tender, amazing, a million other perfect descriptions. He lavishes praise on me and buried me with his attention, and he made me feel better than I’ve ever felt in my life. He gave me a perfect night.

I know there’s something buried deep inside of him, but he clearly shoved it back to where he used to keep it hidden. That night is dead and gone, and so is the Alex I tasted.

“Lev told me to check up on you,” he says, sounding annoyingly calm. “He’s worried.”

“Yeah, well, I’m completely fine.”

“Completely fine people don’t dump expensive dresses and nice flowers in the garbage.”

“I’m sorry, are you here to psychoanalyze me? Because I’m pretty sure an entire mental hospital of therapists could make a living trying to untangle whatever you’ve got going on up there.”

His lips curl. “You’re right. I’m mentally broken. But at least I’m not dumping presents in the trash.”

“Great, good for you. Are we done here? You checked up on me and I’m fine. Conversation finished.”

“Conversation finished,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move.

Instead, for a few moments, he looks at me.

And for the first time since I got home from Paris, I feel fully seen.

It’s strange how invisible I’ve been since coming here. Lev treats me like his little sister and Dad’s always too busy to pay any attention to what I’m doing. And most of the time, Alex is doing whatever jobs Alex is supposed to do.

But right now, he’s staring at me, and he’s taking me completely in.

I remember that look when we were in bed together.

When my mouth crushed to his and he moaned against my lips while I rode him.

Then he turns away and leaves the kitchen.

I watch him go, hating myself for still wanting him, despite how much of a bastard he is.