"James Rogers." Mamma beams like she's just announced I won the lottery. "He's apologizing for cancelling your dinner. The card says?—"
"I don't care what the card says."
I step further into the room, my bare feet crunching on scattered petals that have already fallen. Dead things shedding dead pieces. How poetic.
The arrangement must have cost a fortune. Thousands of dollars spent on something that will be garbage within a week.
Idiot.
Dmitri wouldn't do this.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I hate that it's true. Dmitri is many things but he's notstupid. He wouldn't waste money on something so obviously tone-deaf. Last night at dinner, he paid attention. Helistenedwhen I talked about my security systems, even when his eyes glazed over during the technical parts. He asked questions.
He would know that a woman who builds surveillance systems for a living doesn't want her affection bought with dying plants.
But James Rogers? James Rogers sees "trophy wife" and thinksflowersandjewelryandgrand gesturesbecause that's what men like him have been taught works. Throw enough money at a woman and she'll eventually spread her legs in gratitude.
My jaw clenches.
"Vittoria." Mamma's tone sharpens. "You could at least appreciate the gesture. The poor boy is clearly smitten."
The poor boy has a secret fiancée,I want to scream.The poor boy got caught with another woman and had to cancel our date because his actual girlfriend found out.
But I can't say that without explaininghowI know, which would mean admitting Dmitri told me, which would open a whole new line of questioning I'm not prepared to handle.
"It's excessive." I turn to face her. "And wasteful. And completely impersonal."
"It'sromantic."
"It's a man throwing money at a problem instead of actually thinking about what I might want." I gesture at the floral massacre surrounding us. "Did he ask what my favourite floweris? Did he consider that maybe, just maybe, I might havepreferences? Or did he just call a florist and say 'give me everything red'?"
Mamma's expression shifts from pleased to confused to concerned in the span of three seconds.
"Cara, it's just flowers."
"No, Mamma. It's a statement." I pick up the card without reading it and crumple it in my fist. "It says 'I have money and I'm willing to spend it on you, so you should be grateful.' It doesn't say 'I see you' or 'I understand you' or anything that requires actual effort."
The roses seem to mock me with their perfect petals and their manufactured beauty. Tomorrow they'll start drooping. In three days, the water will turn murky. By next week, the staff will be throwing them out, and James Rogers will have moved on to his next grand gesture, never once considering that maybe some women don't want to be buried in expensive corpses.
I take a breath. Then another.
"Send them back."
Mamma blinks. "What?"
"All of them. Every single one. Send them back to Rogers with a note that says 'No, thank you.'" I drop the crumpled card onto the nearest arrangement. "I don't want them in this house."
"Vittoria, you can't just?—"
"Now, Mamma."
The word comes out loud and clear. Mamma's mouth snaps shut, her eyes widening like I've slapped her.
Guilt flickers through me, but I shove it down. I'm so tired of being managed. Tired of having my future negotiated over dinner tables. Tired of men who think they can buy me with dead flowers and tired smiles.
"I have work to do." I step past her toward the hallway. "Valentino arrives tomorrow, and his security clearances won't configure themselves."
I don't look back.
