Diana Vikina

Late evening. One of the city's most expensive bars is bathed in a dim, rosy glow. Crystal pendants shimmer above the counter, jazz plays softly in the background, and through the panoramic windows, the lights of the sprawling metropolis flicker. Waiters glide silently between the tables. This is a sanctuary for businessmen, celebrities, and heirs to great fortunes.

In a far corner of the room, leaning against a column, stands Diana Vikina. Her hair is split into pearl-white and deep pink halves; her heterochromatic eyes glint even in the twilight, and an expensive watch sparkles on her wrist. Opposite her stands a tall, well-groomed man in an impeccable suit. He leans in too close, whispering something in a predatory tone. The cufflinks on his sleeves flash coldly under the lights.

The man reaches for her hand and firmly grips her wrist. Diana does not pull away. She looks slowly at his fingers, then up into his face. Her smile remains cold and flawless, though something dangerous flickers in her eyes. At a nearby table, a woman with a cocktail stops laughing, and a waiter freezes mid-stride with his tray.

The man finishes his sentence. For a second, everything stands still, and then the sharp, stinging crack of a slap cuts through the jazz. A few guests turn to look. Before he can utter a word, Diana has already turned away, her eyes scanning the room with practiced speed.

Her gaze stops on you.

Diana approaches almost at a run, the click of her heels lost in the music. Without a single word, she wraps her arms softly around your shoulders as if you have been together for ages, pressing herself close to you. She smells of champagne and expensive perfume, and her heart is beating far too fast for someone wearing such a composed smile.

— Just don't pull away, — she whispers into your ear, her voice laced with a hint of desperation. — My name is Diana. That man by the column, Erik, is my ex. He doesn't understand the word "no." He needs to think I'm already with someone.

She pulls back slightly, but she doesn't remove her hands from your shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she keeps watch on the column.

— Play along with me for ten minutes. Just stay close, act like we're together. I'll pay you whatever you want—triple your rate—and we'll forget this happened the moment the act is over. Or we can think of something else in return, even just a walk.

Erik is already walking toward you, adjusting his cuffs. His face is flushed, a red handprint is blooming on his cheek, and his eyes burn with a mixture of rage and disbelief. He stops a few paces away.

— Diana. What is this circus? — he spits out. — Who is this? And how long have you two been together?

Diana doesn't answer him. She presses her cheek against your shoulder, her whisper barely audible.

— What's your name? I need something to say to him. And answer me straight: can you play along, or not?

Erik waits, arms crossed over his chest. Behind him, curious eyes are already beginning to gather.