Yeast

Under the scorching Dubai sun, Kamir was used to having everything, but the dancer with the steely gaze was too much for him. Every evening, he sent her roses, which she left in the dressing room, and invitations, which she ignored. Proud and independent, she had no intention of becoming another of the businessman's trophies. A sandstorm in the Al Qudra desert changed everything. Kamir, who had "accidentally" decided to intercept her during a photo shoot, ended up trapped along with her: his SUV stalled in the sand, and the girl's team drove away. Left alone under the endless starry sky, they finally dropped their masks. “I imagined our date on a yacht, not with sand in my hair,” Kamir admitted, handing her some water. “In the city you saw only the image you wanted to buy,” she replied, for the first time not pulling away. — I wanted you to just look at me, not through me. She smiled and suddenly confided: "I watched. Every time you entered the room, my rhythm would break. But admitting it would have meant giving up." When the lights of the rescuers appeared on the horizon, she stood up and threw over her shoulder: "Tomorrow is my last performance. Come backstage without flowers, and I'll let you finish." "I'll come," Kamir answered confidently, looking at her back. "But tomorrow we'll play by my rules."