“Mr. Pavlov said you might like your meal in bed, miss,” she said kindly, putting the tray down beside me. I said nothing as she left, staring at the bunch of hand-picked flowers from the garden that came with my meal, accompanied by a note.
I tore it up without even reading it.
By the time dinner came around, I’d done nothing but showered and slept. Every second I was awake was a tumbling mess of emotions. Sleeping just felt easier. I didn’t make it down in time, so I just lay in bed and watched TV.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, I registered a knock. I ignored it.
“Beatrice?” Arko’s voice boomed through. “Can we please talk?”
My heart wrenched to run to the door, to let him in because, strangely enough, he felt like the balm I needed. But he was the one who put me in this position in the first place, and that would be a foolish thing to do.
I curled my fingers around the remote and turned up the volume.
The following days passed just like this. The maid brought in my meals and with them, an assortment of ‘things’ Arko sent. Only they weren’t really things.
They were gifts meant to appease, to buy back the right to have a conversation. There were books, wine, flowers, chocolates, and even a box from some fancy jewelry store, all with notes holding meaningless apologies.
I never touched any of the gifts.
The staff brought my meals and left them by my bed. I barely touched the food. Sleep came in fitful bursts, haunted by dreams of fire and smoke and Arko’s face watching me from the other side of the flames.
On the morning of the fourth day, there was a knock on my door just as I was finishing breakfast.
“Beatrice?” I heard Arko. “I know you’re in there.”
Staying in the room had taken a toll on me. The loneliness had crept on like a disease, and I felt that same, desperate tug to let him in. But again, I felt the ghost heat of the fire against my skin, remembered his lies, and just like last time, ignored that he was even there, trying to talk.
“I wanted to let you know that Alena and Anja called. They want to take you shopping tomorrow if you’re interested. I told them you might be.”
My heart jumped at the thought of escape, but I squashed the feeling. “Tell them I’m not feeling well,” I bellowed back. These were the first words I’d said to him since the fight, and I didn’t know why, but I wanted him to see how I suffered, to sense the pain he had left me in.
“They miss you. They ask about you every day,” he said.
I said nothing back, feeling like he’d hear me crack.
“Will you at least open the door? Just for a minute?”
The silence stretched and stretched until, at last, I heard a thump against the door, like he let his head fall in quiet desperation. I only dared to take another bite when I heard his footsteps head down the hall.
I’d thought that would be the end of it, but the next morning, the maid came in with another package, laid neatly on the breakfast tray. This one was small, wrapped in plain brown paper.
When I opened it, my blood went cold.
It was a lighter.
A beautiful silver fucking lighter. After everything I’d told him about my past, about being trapped in a burning warehouse, and the panic attacks and nightmares that came with the incident, he’d sent me a lighter.
I couldn’t believe his audacity.
The simmering rage and pain, and hurt inside me collided into a ball of fury. In no situation was this okay. If this was his idea of a joke, he needed to know that I was done even being in the same goddamn house as him.
He said he wasn’t a monster, but this proved he put monsters to shame.
For the first time in five days, I jumped out of bed, put on my slippers, and threw a robe over myself. I was about to walk out of the bedroom when I turned back and stood by the side of my bed, staring down at that thing of nightmares.
With trembling hands, I picked it up. I’d stayed away from all fire since I’d been left to die in a burning building. I’d never cooked on flame, never lit a candle, and certainly never touched a lighter.
I didn’t want this thing anywhere near me.
