Whirlwind | W.M.

7

Moscow, Russia
2013

Dresses are incredibly uncomfortable when you've got at least two knives strapped to the inside of your thighs— amongst other things. It kind of ruins the whole vibe because instead of feeling 'confidently sexy' like the ad says from the store I bought this navy blue, flowing dress from— I feel like a walking cactus. I truly preferred guns in undercover work, but the security at the Four Seasons was amped up to an insane degree and I've barely had time to plant any sort of firearm inside before the event.

So there I am, plastering on a smile as I saunter down the elegantly decorated hall, lines with high ceilings and windows covered in silken curtains— dressed to the nines with such a painfully feigned smile on my red lips like the tip of the knife wasn't inches away from my privates.

Because thats definitely sexy.

"Name?" The large man situated by the entrance to the grand ballroom sets his eyes on me, thick accent seeping through his words as his fingers impatiently tap at the clipboard in his hand.

"Aliana Sokalova." I promptly reply, desperately trying to relax my body to an insconspicuous degree as his dark brown eyes scan over his list.

"Are you here alone?" He asks, eyes still trained on the clipboard in his hands as the distant sounds of flashing cameras and loud pleas of photographers by the entrance of the hotel pierce through the air.

"She's with me." An unfamiliar female voice chimes in right as I feel an arm around my waist. Her french accent was prominent in her words, almost sultry in tone as confusion swarms my entirety.

With my nerves perking up at the unforseen interruption, my head instantly snaps to the newfound presence by my side and there she stood, a woman who looked only a few years older and dripped of elegance. With a face seemingly ripped out of a magazine, her long, blonde hair was perfectly curled, lips painted dark crimson as her cheeks were tainted with an perfectly subtle blush. She smiles at me, light blue eyes that could have held the waves of the ocean sparkled under the crystal illumination— rendering me speechless under her oozing confidence.

"Of course, Ms. Augustin. My apologies. Right inside, your table is waiting." The man shifts demeanor right before my eyes, his scowl then replaced by a cordial smile as he unhooks the velvet rope and pushes the large, oak doors open for our entry.

Without another word, the woman hooks her arm around mine, leading me inside in a smooth stride. The ballroom was all that I imagined— and expected. Largely elegant chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, the light fixtures the surrounded it almost looked like diamonds sparkling the light and pouring it down in the most sophisticated manner. The tables didn't disappoint either, plastered with graceful center pieces that matched the glamorous aura that every single person in the room gave off.

"I'm sorry but I think you've mistaken me for somebody else." I finally speak up, glancing at the woman as we stood halfway through the room with our arms still tightly linked.

"I don't make mistakes, darling. You're my date." She replies with a smile, further spiraling me into confusion as we stop at a table plastered with men dressed in crisp, pressed suits.

Cigars sat between their fingers as they laughed amongst themselves, each having a glass of liquor situated before them as all eyes turn to us at our arrival. Quite frankly, all snobby white men looked the same to me. Same greying hair slicked back, same slimy smiles and arrogant stares. They were no different, but the woman didn't seem to mind the way their eyes maliciously gloss over her, like she was some kind of item they were willing to buy.