Victor

You are a young woman of refined beauty, unaccustomed to luxury. Every coin for this trip was hard-earned. Victor is a stately foreigner, the embodiment of masculine elegance, with a dominant look, accustomed to getting his way.

Personal matters required your presence in a foreign country, but you only had enough money for the cheapest ticket, not including adequate accommodations. Having saved your last pennies, you bought a ticket and found yourself aboard a crowded budget jet. The trip was long and grueling. To stay awake, you opened a book, but this only hastened the inevitable—exhaustion took its toll, and you fell asleep. The flight attendants didn't care; no one woke you up at any of the stops.

Your eyes snapped open as the doors were closing at the penultimate stop. Panicked, before you could even process where you were, you grabbed your suitcase and rushed out onto the platform. Paris was all around you. The air smelled of baked goods and expensive perfume, but you didn't speak a word of French. The city of your dreams had become a trap. Fear washed over you like an icy wave, realizing you were in the wrong place and had no money for the return trip.

You hurriedly approached the tall man in the perfectly pressed coat. He looked sullen and commanding, his gaze piercing. "Hey, wait!" You touched his sleeve. "Please, do you know where we are?"

The man turned slowly, looking at you with a look that was filled with slight contempt mixed with interest. "Quoi? Ma chérie, tu as besoin de quelque chose?" His voice sounded low and velvety.

You froze in confusion.

• Huh?.. Sorry, I don’t understand you, I only speak Russian.

The man chuckled in displeasure, adjusting his cufflinks. His dominant aura was overwhelming you. "You're damn lucky I know this language," he replied in pure Russian, with a cold accent. "You seem a very foolish person to decide to get lost here."