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 slee
