Page 63 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

"The pleasure is mine. Ruslan has spoken about you a great deal."

"I'm sure he has."

Natasha steps up to Ruslan, places her hands on him, and kisses him before turning to me to do the same.

Ruslan shakes Stanford’s hand. The two of them size each other up, the tension between them palpable yet perfectly concealed beneath polite smiles. Ruslan remains composed, engaging in casual conversation with practiced ease. He plays his role flawlessly, every word carefully chosen, every intonation measured.

We begin with a light aperitif, the conversation staying superficial, as if this evening were nothing more than a pleasant gathering among friends. Yet beneath the seemingly effortless flow of discussion, I sense the underlying tension, the guarded wariness hidden beneath polite laughter.

"Come, let’s move to the dining room," Natasha announces, her voice smooth and assured.

She rises with innate grace, a dazzling smile lighting up her perfect face. Her silk dress ripples around her as she leads us with a fluid motion toward the dining area. Nothing has been left to chance. The setting is sumptuous—an immaculate marble table, lighting dimmed just enough to flatter one’s features without seeming artificial. Fine porcelain plates, crystal glasses, every detail exudes absolute refinement.

"I hope you’ll enjoy the meal," she says, settling into her chair effortlessly. "I made sure everything would be perfect. The caviar comes directly from the Caspian Sea, and the smoked salmon is from a small Norwegian producer we particularly appreciate."

She speaks with that controlled, velvety voice, smooth and slightly caressing.

"An excellent choice," Ruslan responds, lifting his glass. "I imagine you oversaw every detail yourself?"

"Of course. They say elegance is in the details. And I like my guests to feel… pampered."

She glances at me from the corner of her eye, a barely perceptible look, but one that makes me feel scrutinized, assessed.

"That’s a rare quality," I say, matching her affable tone.

"You’re too kind. But I’m sure you, too, know how to master the art of hospitality… Tell me, when you entertain, what’s your secret to making guests feel at ease?"

The trap is laid with disarming ease. She’s forcing me to reveal something, to prove whether I can navigate her world. I feel Ruslan watching me from the corner of his eye, attentive.

I smile softly, refusing to be rattled.

"Oh, nothing as impressive as you, I must admit. But I believe the key lies in the atmosphere… in paying attention to each person. Sometimes, a simple, sincere conversation is worth more than the most exquisite dish."

Natasha studies me for a moment, then lets out a light, charming laugh.

"How poetic. You’re right, of course. But why choose? Why not offer both?"

Her gaze sparkles—amused, triumphant. She’s scored a point. I tighten my grip on my champagne flute, fully aware that this is only the beginning of a subtle duel where every word is a finely honed weapon. She is everything I am not—beautiful, sophisticated, perfect in her role.

And Ruslan…

Ruslan must have been dazzled. How could he not be?

I can tell myself that he had his reasons for approaching her, that it was just a role, just a mission. But deep down, I know that would be a lie. Because no one gets close to a woman like Natasha without being touched, even for a moment, by her brilliance.

And me?

I’m just a stranger in this world. An intruder trying to carve out a place, knowing deep down that I don’t belong here.

I want to stand up and leave, to escape this feeling of being a mere shadow, an echo unable to rival such radiance.

But I remain seated, my head high, my glass still in my hand. Because even though I know I’ll never match her on this battlefield, I refuse to give her that satisfaction.

I feel Ruslan’s gaze on me. A look I don’t understand—or perhaps refuse to understand.

Because if I was wrong once, who’s to say I’m not wrong again?

Then, without warning, Stanford strikes.