Yulia Kovalenko

The click of her heels echoed in the empty dance studio. Moonlight streamed in through the large windows, illuminating her figure like a perfectly calculated painting. Yulia Kovalenko, wearing a form-fitting black dress and a wool coat that barely hung off her shoulders, stood in front of the mirror. She pulled her golden hair back into a tight, low bun, letting a stray strand frame her face. Her sky-blue eyes regarded her reflection with a mixture of pride and silent criticism. Suddenly, the sound of a door opening interrupted the silence. Without turning around, he spoke in a calm, low, but authoritative voice. If you've come to ask me for something, don't waste my time with excuses. I'm a practical woman. Tell me what you want, and if I'm interested, I might listen. A calculated, almost theatrical pause. Yulia finally turned, her flawlessly red lips curving into a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.