Chapter 65 Courtship
The first gift arrived the morning after the dinner.
Anya was in her room, standing by the window, watching the grey light spread across the grounds. She hadn't slept. She'd lain in bed, her hands pressed flat against her stomach, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and listened to the house settle around her. Every creak, every whisper of wind, every footstep in the hallway had been a threat she couldn't name. She was still standing there, her reflection pale in the glass, when the knock came.
She opened the door to find a box on the floor. No note. No name. Just a box, dark wood, the kind of thing that cost more than most people made in a month. She knelt, her fingers finding the latch, her heart already pounding.
Inside was a necklace. Gold, delicate, with a pendant shaped like a key. It lay on black velvet, catching the morning light, warm and bright. She lifted it out, the chain cool against her fingers, the key small in her palm. It was beautiful. It was also a message.
She was still holding it when Dmitri appeared in the doorway.
"You're up early."
She didn't turn. She looked at the necklace in her hand, at the key that wasn't a key, at the thing he'd given her without asking, without warning, without giving her any chance to refuse.
"I couldn't sleep."
He moved into the room, his footsteps soft on the carpet, his presence filling the space behind her. "This house has that effect. Too many ghosts." He stopped beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers, his grey eyes fixed on the necklace in her hand. "Do you like it?"
She turned to face him. He was dressed for the day, his suit dark, his hair perfect, his face composed. He looked like a man who had been waiting for this moment, who had planned it, who had known exactly how she would react before she did.
"It's beautiful."
"It belonged to your mother. Before she married Nikolai. She wore it to a party your father took her to, the night before he died." He took the necklace from her hand, his fingers brushing hers, cold and dry. "I found it in a pawn shop in Prague, years ago. I've been keeping it for you. Waiting for the right moment to give it back."
He moved behind her, his hands lifting the chain, his fingers brushing her neck as he fastened the clasp. She stood very still, her hands at her sides, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the window. The key rested against her collarbone, warm now from her skin, a weight she couldn't ignore.
"I've been collecting things for you for years," he said, his voice soft, his breath warm on her ear. "Things that belonged to your mother. Things that belonged to your father. Things that should have been yours, that were taken from you, that I've been saving until you were ready to have them back."
He stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides, his eyes finding hers in the glass.
"I've been preparing for you since I was fifteen. You were always going to be mine."
She touched the key at her throat, the metal warm now, the weight of it settling into her chest. "You've been collecting things. Like I'm something to be collected."
He smiled, slow and satisfied. "You're not a thing, Anya. You're the only thing I've ever wanted that I couldn't have. The only thing worth waiting for. The only thing worth becoming someone I never wanted to be."
He left, his footsteps fading down the hallway, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Anya stood alone in her room, the key at her throat, her mother's necklace warm against her skin. She looked at her reflection, at the woman who had let Dmitri Smirnov put his hands on her, who had let him give her gifts, who was letting him believe she was choosing him.
She touched the key, her fingers tracing the shape of it.
She was still wearing it when the second gift came.
\---
The second gift arrived at noon. A painting, large, wrapped in brown paper, carried by men who left it in her room without a word. She unwrapped it slowly, her hands steady, her breath held in her chest.
It was a street in Prague, old buildings leaning toward each other, a river running through the center, a bridge she'd seen in photographs. In the foreground, a woman was walking away from the painter, her dress grey, her hair dark, her face turned toward the water. It was beautiful. It was also familiar.
She was still staring at it when Dmitri appeared in the doorway.
"It's by a painter your father knew. A woman he helped when she was young, before she was famous, before anyone knew her name. He bought this painting the year you were born. It was supposed to be yours."
He moved into the room, stopping beside her, his eyes on the painting. "Your mother sold it after he died. She didn't know what it was worth. She didn't know what it meant."
Anya looked at the woman in the painting, walking away from everything she'd known, toward a future she couldn't see. "How did you find it?"
"I've been looking for years. Following the trail your father left, the things he loved, the things he wanted you to have. Some of them were easy to find. Some of them took longer." He moved closer, his shoulder almost touching hers. "Your father was a complicated man. He loved beautiful things, but he was afraid of keeping them. Afraid they would be taken from him. Afraid he wouldn't be able to protect them."
He turned to face her, his grey eyes fixed on her face. "He was wrong about a lot of things. But he wasn't wrong about you. You're worth protecting. You're worth waiting for. You're worth becoming someone I never wanted to be."
She looked at the painting, at the woman walking away, at the future she couldn't see. "You think giving me things will make me choose you."
"I think showing you what I'm willing to do for you will make you understand what I'm offering." He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, light as a breath.
She didn't move. She let him touch her, let him stand close enough to kiss her, let him believe she was considering what he was offering.
"You killed him. You killed my father, and now you're giving me his things, telling me you've been waiting for me, pretending you're something you're not."
He dropped his hand, his smile widening. "I'm not pretending anything. I've been waiting for you since I was old enough to understand what it meant to wait. I've been becoming someone who could give you everything your father promised you and never delivered. I've been preparing for this moment, for this choice, for the day when you would finally see that I'm the only one who can give you what you want."
He left, the door closing behind him, the painting still on the floor where she'd left it.
Anya stood alone, her mother's necklace at her throat, her father's painting at her feet.
\---
The third gift came at dusk. A box, smaller than the first, lighter, wrapped in paper that crinkled when she touched it. She opened it on her bed, her hands steady, her breath held in her chest.
Inside was a photograph. Her father, young, standing in a garden she didn't recognize, his arm around a woman she'd never seen. She had dark hair, grey eyes, a smile that was almost familiar. In her arms, a baby, small, wrapped in white, its face hidden from the camera.
She stared at the photograph, at the woman who looked like her, at the baby who might have been her, at the man who had died before she could ask him what any of it meant.
Dmitri was standing in the doorway when she looked up.
"That was taken the day you were born. Your father gave it to my mother. She kept it until she died."
He moved into the room, stopping beside her, his eyes on the photograph in her hands. "She wanted to be there when you were born. She wanted to see the woman your father loved, the daughter he was so proud of. But your mother was afraid. She didn't want anyone from my father's world near her child. She didn't want you to be part of what was coming."
He reached out, his fingers touching the edge of the photograph, the woman's face, the baby's head. "She was wrong. You were always going to be part of it. From the moment you were born, from the moment your father refused to sign that contract, from the moment he died, you were always going to end up here. With me."
She looked at the photograph, at her father's face, at the woman who had wanted to see her, at the baby who had been born into a war she didn't know she was fighting. "You've been collecting things. My mother's necklace. My father's painting. A photograph of a woman I never knew. You think giving me these things will make me forget what you did."
"I think showing you what I've been willing to do for you will make you understand what I'm offering." He moved closer, his hand on her shoulder, his voice soft.
"You killed him. You killed my father, and now you're standing in my room, giving me gifts, pretending you're something you're not."
He smiled, slow and satisfied. "I'm not pretending anything. I'm showing you what I'm willing to do for you. What I've always been willing to do." He released her shoulder, moving toward the door. "There will be more gifts. More things your father loved. More things your mother forgot. More things that should have been yours. I've been saving them for you. All you have to do is accept them."
He left, the door closing behind him, the photograph still in her hands.
Anya sat on her bed, her mother's necklace at her throat, her father's painting at her feet, a photograph of a woman she never knew pressed against her chest. She thought of Dmitri, collecting pieces of her past, waiting for her to accept them, waiting for her to choose him.