𝘾𝙀𝙊. - 𝘾𝙀𝙊 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

26.

━━━

Chandeliers layer the roof. 

Glistening, like hung diamonds above the people able to afford them.

They glitter against every shiny surface, the lighting warm yet comfortable, a layer of smoky wood and the sweet ooze of countless colognes and expensive perfumes fill the thick air. 

Clatter, high clinking, chatting, lavish laughter with no ounce of a snort or a scrunch of the nose to harbour an impression or idea of one being improper or indecorous. 

Every one of these factors stand to be some of the most intimidating atmospheres one can be in, especially if they were not raised or taught how to act or what to do. 

I am one of those people. 

And what makes the situation just as trepidation-inducing, is the fact that Mr Dostoevsky is now sitting right next to me. 

He is so, utterly tense.

Like he is afraid to move, or even breathe. 

From the moment I exited the hotel and joined him within the car, to now, where we sit next to each other, on a large, dark-oak, oval table, we have exchanged only a few words.

Those words, being, 

When I entered through the left-backseat side of the car and the driver closed the door for me, his eyes did a double-take from his right-backseats window from it, to me. 

Over, and over again.

Up and down, back to the window, cigar in his leather-gloved fingers, his body clad in a black, sleek turtleneck under a black suit-blazer, black slacks, black sunglasses, his hair just as raven.

Every aspect of his clothing radiated the natural intimidation and unity of a black panther, his body coated in the deepest inks possible, yet his eyes stand so intense in their iciness, both in their ice-blue colour and the rack of emotions sat behind them.

He would speak, so hesitantly, like he was being coaxed to.

Or possibly, he found the need to speak to be necessary due to our complex dynamic currently. 

"...Hello, Miss Y/N,"

I wouldn't answer for a long, tense moment, my nose kept high and towards my side of the backseat window, taking in the distant, Parisian night, each glittering star lined across the sky in its relentless, natural beauty, rather than the man who sits a few inches away from me. 

Then, I would murmur, 

"Stanislav."

In a singular reply of both bitter bluntness and numb intent, unable to take in the expression he may have held, but the way his breath shuddered in an exhale through his nostrils, the way I stated his first same may have struck a nerve in him. 

"...You look... nice."

My gaze narrowed when those deep, hushed words filled my ears, I was unable to safely process how it made me feel, so, I never replied. 

And now, we sit beside each other within cushioned, weighted dining chairs, surrounded by the primped and primed members of different companies and investors, secretaries and the spouses of such important people.

They speak of things I barely comprehend; they laugh in ways I've never heard middle class people chuckle in, and they drink wines and champagnes I myself cannot even afford. 

So, I stay silent, docile. 

Even as I find myself unmotivated to speak to Mr Dostoevsky, my heart lurching out of my chest every time I catch the spice of his cologne in the air, this is one of the moments where I place myself under his words.