It’s not a chore I can just assign to someone else.
Tradition and custom exist to be a pain in my ass, including now. The custom among the Videralli is that New Year gift-wrapping is done by the sender. It adds sincerity, I suppose, but maybe it’s a magic thing, too. I never asked.
One thing is for certain—it isn’t a task I get to delegate.
The sigh I give is drawn-out and dramatic as I peel myself off the chesterfield, my head lolling with the reluctance.
Abigail is quick to come and go, returning with all the wrapping paper and ribbons and tape neatly piled in a basket that I’m absolutely certain she had hidden out in the corridor.
She pushes aside the coffee table to expose the rug, the threads weaved tightly into little cream hills.
I drop onto the rug, legs folded, and watch as Abigail brings in the unwrapped gifts from the wardrobe one by one.
My face tightens.
So many of them.
Even with Abigail’s help, it’s tedious work.
I wrap gifts. Like it matters. Like it means something.
But it doesn’t.
Since Mother came to sit with me under the battered shelter of the bus stop, and she showed me her true face beneath all the masks she wears, I’ve realised that none of it matters—none of what I do makes any difference.
So why try at all?
My mother has the power to stand against my father and his decision. My brother could voice his support of me. My father could listen to what I told him and change his mind, change my path.
But nothing is changed.
Father will sell me off to Dray…
Mother will plan my wedding.
Oliver will stand by and let it happen.
BecauseIdon’t matter. Not beyond my duty, the reason aristos families strive for a daughter.
I was kept in the dark about it, too, at Dray’s request—yet so many others knew.
Like Landon.
And I bet my wardrobe that Serena knew, too.
That must be why she’s been trying to get back into my good graces, to align with me, because I am the new Asta Ström—positioned to be the next Mrs Sinclair.
Fucking barf.
The shudder that strikes me is so violent I rattle and the scissors in my hand tremble.
It’s all too much to sort out, like we sort these gifts and all the bells and whistles to wrap them with. I need time to sift through all the truths, the agendas, and only then can I come up with some way out of this.
I’m decided on that.
There has to be a way out.
I can’t picture it, living my life with him, his ring on my finger,hishands onmybody inourbed—
