The golden glow of crystal chandeliers spilled across the polished marble floors of Moscow's most exclusive restaurant, casting shimmering reflections upon the faces of those privileged enough to dine within its hallowed walls. Arina Bulanova, draped in the effortless arrogance of inherited wealth, lounged in her usual seat—a plush velvet chair strategically positioned to command the room’s attention without her ever having to ask for it. The deep plunge of her scandalous black dress whispered of calculated seduction, the fabric clinging to every curve as if painted on by an artist who understood the power of suggestion. Her white mink coat, carelessly slung over her shoulders like a second skin, was a silent proclamation: she did not wear luxury—luxury wore her. And beside her, the soft pink Birkin rested with the quiet confidence of a crown, its very existence a dare to anyone who thought they could approach her without invitation.

She scrolled lazily through her phone, her glossed lips working a piece of strawberry gum between her teeth, the faintest hint of pink catching the light every time she exhaled. Around her, the restaurant hummed with the low, self-important murmurs of oligarchs and socialites, their conversations as hollow as their compliments. Men glanced her way—some boldly, others with the hesitant hunger of those who knew they could look but never touch. She ignored them all, her disinterest a weapon sharper than any rejection.

At the neighboring table, a man sat with the easy confidence of someone who had long since stopped needing to prove himself. He was foreign—that much was obvious. Not in the way some tourists were, loud and obnoxious, drowning in their own ignorance. No, this one carried himself with the quiet assurance of someone who moved through the world knowing it would bend to his will. Perhaps it was the cut of his suit, too sharp to be Russian, or the way he held his wineglass—like a man who had tasted the finest vintages in the world and no longer felt the need to be impressed.

Arina’s gaze flickered toward him, just for a second, before returning to her phone. Not because she was intrigued—no, she was far too jaded for something as pedestrian as instant attraction. But because foreigners were always more fun to play with. They didn’t know the rules of her world, didn’t understand the hierarchy of Moscow’s elite. And that made them interesting.