I should have left the doorman's knock, but something made me open the door when he stood there holding a stack of boxes nearly as tall as me. Each one was pristine, wrapped in velvety black paper, tied with silken ribbon. My name, Ivana Prute was written in gold on each label. I closed the door in a breath, heart racing, and carried them inside like fragile verdicts. I already knew who they were from.
How my life had drastically changed from a miserable broke virgin to a billionaire mistress receiving designer gifts is what I still couldn't come to terms with.
In my bedroom which was heavily cramped, humming with the soft glow of a single lamp, the boxes lay like accusations or offers. The smallest was a jewelry box, faint swirl of golden filigree and an engraved card. The next was sleek and sizable. The third was old-fashioned and thick, like a secret. My lips parted slightly; I felt dizzy.
I sat cross-legged amidst them. I untied the first ribbon with shaking fingers. Inside, a necklace, white-gold chain, delicate open book pendant holding a deep blue sapphire. I lifted it to my neck; it slipped easily, cold at first, then warming instantly with my breath. The pendant caught the light, glinting like possibility.
The second box revealed a custom made MacBook; matte black, Ivana Prute engraved subtly above the trackpad in silver. I half expected him to have installed spy software, but he left the desktop empty. My old laptop had died months ago, crippled by rejection after rejection. Now this sat in my lap, humming with power. The key fonts were crisp, the glow promising pages I'd only dared to dream of.
The largest box held rare first editions of The Great Gatsby, Lolita, 1984—books I'd read in borrowed copies, from uninspiring editions or library dogs and mildew. Now they lay before me, pristine: rich mahogany leather, gold leafing on the spines. My breath caught in my chest; owning even one would've been impossible. Now I had three. I traced Gatsby's title with trembling fingers, it felt like a betrayal or a blessing.
Last came the envelope, heavy, thick lines beneath my name. I opened it, life slowing. Ink flowed in clear handwriting:
> For the mind I can't stop thinking about.
– Kyl.
A note for my mind, not my body. The words pricked me, gratitude? Worship? Control? All of them. what exactly was this.
I folded the card onto my bed. The necklace draped across the laptop. The novels leaned against my battered desk. I sat still, overwhelmed.
---
My bestie Mala burst in minutes later, huge smile on her face as she surveyed the scene. I could've cried. Instead I swallowed.
"Well?" she asked softly, but there was laughter in her eyes.
I gestured dumbly. "He's not my boyfriend. He's… someone I had sex with." Shame tightened in my chest.
She sat beside me and lifted a book. "Firsts are heavy. First impressions, first money, wow, who gives you something so excessive." Her tone quietened. "Is it appreciation… or control?"
I stared at the gifts. "He didn't call it 'payment.' He called it something… about my mind."
"Dangerous. He's giving you tools. And you know what? You get to choose what you build with them." She cupped the sapphire pendant in her palm. "You're not buying a life. You're being bought—but you can rig the price."
---
Over coffee, Mala and I sorted through everything again. I slipped the sapphire necklace on, feeling it weight down purposefully, then rise again. I booted up the laptop, setting the screen brightness low so I couldn't see the reflection of my nerves. The novels stood sentinel behind the monitor.
I turned on the screen to a blank document. A cursor blinked.
Mala handed me a steaming cup. "Go on. Write something."
I tapped keys: He bought words from me, but can he own the sentences I meant for myself?
As I placed my fingers on the keyboard the words came slowly, thin and trembling, but they came. My reflection in the screen blurred as I typed.
"I'm scared," I admitted aloud. "Because I don't know if I'm grateful or afraid."
Mala squeezed my hand. "Fear's fine. That means you know something matters."
---
That night I lay on the messy bed, books splayed around me, necklace still glinting. I wound up a quiet playlist. Rain softly tapped at the window.
"comon Ivana, you know what you signed up for" I chided myself.
I read Gatsby until 2 a.m., until the words felt stolen and holy. I wrote pages in the new laptop, raw paragraphs about what it meant to be gifted something I both needed and feared. Lines about debt and desire blurred on the page. My heart pounded, tears came. Betrayal and gratitude tangled beneath each word.
When the pages ended, my pulse steadied. I reread the note: For the mind I can't stop thinking about. I let that mantra echo.
---
Morning light bled in through the bedroom window, I woke up tangled in the sheets of my bed (not his). Necklace clung. Laptop hummed quietly. Books whispered gray dust.
Mala was up, cooking eggs.
"You wrote last night?" she asked quietly as I entered the kitchen.
I nodded, wearing the necklace as armor. The eggs were simple, but the coffee was strong.
"You ready?" she asked.
I took a breath. "I can't leave them." I meant the books, the laptop, the necklace. The weight of everything.
"They're yours now," she said softly.
---
Later, after she left, I opened the laptop and sent a message to his assistant:
> "Thank you for the gifts. I've received everything. I will write something worthy of them."
I paused for a second, finger hovering: "And if I don't?" I Deleted it.
I shut it down and opened the silver-gilded copy of Lolita, running my thumb over the title. I imagined writing a novel that mattered, not for money, not for approval, but for myself.
---
By evening, I had twelve pages. Resumes, dreams, a memory of my parents' funeral. Scribbled notes about power and shame. I burned incense, lit a candle, imagined I was alone but not broken.
I slipped the sapphire necklace over my collar. It draped low, hidden beneath my blouse, reminding me: I'm not his plaything. I'm someone. With a story.
---
Standing at the window, I stared at the skyline.
I wasn't his girlfriend. I wasn't even his lover just only sometimes a friend, sometimes a tool. But maybe I could be more than that. Maybe I could build something with these gifts.
I didn't know yet whether they were kindness or chain.
But I was going to write my way out anyway.
And for once, I believed I could.