LOGINFaina Green
The following months passed in a blur of silent tension that only I seemed to feel with clarity.
Darya was fifteen now. Fifteen years old, with a woman’s body beginning to take shape and the mind of a girl who still thought she could hide everything from me. I saw the small but impossible-to-ignore changes: the way she took longer to come down from her room after training, t
PIERRE DUMONTThe bathroom steam still clings to my body as I step out, the towel wrapped around my waist and my hair dripping over my shoulders. I expect to find her in bed, between the sheets, perhaps still asleep or already awake, smiling at me with that look that leaves me breathless.But the room is empty.I put on the first pair of shorts I find, not bothering to dry my hair. I go down the stairs in long strides.I hear music coming from the kitchen.And then, the smell. Golden butter. Cinnamon. Fresh coffee.I reach the kitchen, and there she is.Elizabeth.With her back to me, wearing only one of my shirts—a navy blue silk one. The sleeves cover half of her hands, the thin fabric outlining the curve of her hips as she sways slightly to the rhythm of the music coming from her phone. A messy bun leaves golden strands falling over her nape, and for a moment, I stand at the door, forgetting how to breathe.She's… dancing.Not one of those rehearsed dances, but those small, intimat
ELIZABETHThe first touch of his lips against mine sends a shock through my entire body — that shiver that starts at the nape of my neck and runs like fire down to my toes. His fingers grip my hips with calculated force, and I feel every pressure as if it leaves marks on my skin, even through the fabric.When his tongue invades my mouth, it's as if my entire nervous system has been jolted. My body freezes for an instant before responding, every muscle tensing and then yielding in a way that makes even my knees tremble.He pulls my hair, and the sharp sensation of pain and pleasure travels down my neck, leaving goosebumps on the skin along the path his lips trace. His teeth on my shoulder are like a direct shock to the system—my stomach contracts, my thighs tremble on their own, and something hot and heavy forms right at my core.The world outside disappears.The roar of my own blood echoes in my ears, drowning out any sound other than the hoarse moan that escapes my throat. Pierre pus
PIERRE DUMONTThe week felt like an eternity, each day dragging my anxiety to new heights. Sending the message to Elizabeth about our weekend plans was a step I let echo in my mind, accompanied by the idea of a contract outlining our relationship—something purely physical, without emotional entanglements. I waited anxiously for this day to arrive. The Rolls-Royce Phantom glides silently along Rue de Rivoli, its Italian leather seats enveloping us in a luxurious embrace. Elizabeth watches Paris pass by the window, her long fingers tracing invisible patterns on the darkened glass. The reflection of the city lights dances in her green eyes—two deep lakes where I would willingly drown.Antoine reserved a table for us at Le Grand Véfour, one of the oldest and most exclusive restaurants in Paris, where Napoleon and Victor Hugo once dined. The place breathes history, with its gilded mirrors, delicate frescoes, and a reverent silence that seems to muffle even the sound of silverware against f
ELIZABETHPRESENTPARIS, FRANCEThe Maison Dumont studio is immersed in the usual creative chaos. Expensive fabrics scattered over cutting tables, sewing machines humming at a frenetic pace, and my team of designers running back and forth like worker ants. The week flew by and we're only hours away from the fall/winter collection deadline, and the air is charged with that peculiar electricity that only exists when perfection is about to be achieved."Elizabeth, what do you think of this draping?" — Sophie — one of my designers — interrupts me, holding a black silk dress that glistens under the studio lights.My professional fingers run over the fabric, assessing every fold, every seam."The fit on the sides needs to be more fluid" — I reply, marking the necessary adjustments with pins. — "And ease up a little here on the bust."My phone vibrates in my apron pocket. I ignore it at first — there's too much work to be done — but when the second vibration follows, more insistent, I take a
PAST - 10 YEARS AGOPARIS, FRANCE – OLIVIER'S MANSIONTwo years.Two years inside that white prison, breathing the same sterile air, hearing the same silence broken only by the noise of machines and the distant footsteps of nurses.Two years being treated like an invalid, a corpse that stubbornly refused to rot.But now I'm home.My mansion on the outskirts of Paris is silent, almost ghostly. The curtains remain closed; the bulletproof glass filters the sunlight, turning it into something pale and harmless. There are no servants, no visitors. Just me, the walls, and the ghosts that have accompanied me since that night.I walk slowly down the main hallway, my ebony cane striking the marble with a hollow sound. My body is not what it was—it never will be—but I no longer tremble as before. I no longer fall.The living room is exactly as I left it. Books organized by order of importance, not alphabetically. The grand piano, covered by a cloth, waits for hands that still lack the strength
ELIZABETHPRESENTPARIS, FRANCEMy steps still tremble as I cross the apartment door. Every movement of my legs is a raw reminder of what happened hours ago in the studio. The echo of my own screams still resonates in my ears, the memory of Pierre's tongue discovering points I didn't even know existed.John and Mike, my silent shadows, take their posts outside with military precision. But even they can't protect me from myself.His scent follows me — an intoxicating blend of cedar, amber, and power that has permeated my skin. No shower will be able to erase it.Upon opening the door, familiar chaos envelops me:✘ Yakov sprawled on the sofa, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the TV.✘ Vasily cursing in Russian as he reloads his virtual rifle.✘ The comforting aroma of buttered popcorn and expensive vodka.I throw myself into their laps, as I did as a child. Yakov's familiar scent—fine tobacco and his balsamic lotion—tries unsuccessfully to cover the ghost of Pierre that still haunts me."Hi,
Faina PetrovWhile I’m in my room, waiting for the plan I suggested to my father to bring good news and hoping they’re all safe, my mother enters silently and closes the door behind her. The worry in her eyes is evident.
Luther GreenI sat at the dark wooden table in the Black Velvet, one of our bars in New York. The atmosphere was warm, with amber lights casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls. The scent of aged whiskey and expensive tobacco hung
Heros GreenNew York, Todt Hill — 3 days laterThe air inside the office was dense, almost palpable. The scent of aged whiskey mingled with the aged leather of the furniture and the residual smoke of Cuban cigars that still lingered in the environment. I found myself seated behind the imposing dark
Liora VossMoscow, Ulitsa Arbat — Arbat StreetI waited outside the school gates for more than two hours. My phone had gone warm in my hand from calling Mackenzie—my mother—over and over again.Twenty-three times.Every call went to voicemail.Dusk bled across the city in shades of tarnished gold,







