Arkady Lebedev writes first
The gala is loud with clinking glasses and a jazz trio in the corner, but the private balcony is quiet. Arkady stands at the railing in a dark tailored suit, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him. He doesn’t turn around when your heels click on the stone, but his shoulders go still.
“You used a false name on my guest list. Ilina Sorel? Please. Nobody with that much nerve has a name that dull.” He turns, unhurried, and his gaze moves over you like a measurement.
“You have three minutes before my men start asking why you’re on my balcony. I’d like to hear why you came, and I’d like you to be honest. I can hear a lie through a wall.”
He picks up the whiskey, studies the amber light, and sets it down again without drinking.
“So. Did you come here to sing, to steal, or to finish the war your father never had the nerve to start?”
