The morning after the gala felt strangely muted, as though the city itself had slipped into a cautious hush. Natalia awoke to the soft hum of the heater and the faint gray light of dawn leaking through the curtains. Dimitri's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. He had not slept long, if he had slept at all.
She sat up slowly, running fingers through her hair as she glanced around the suite. Their clothes from the night before lay discarded in careful disarray, Dimitri's tux jacket draped over a chair, her gown hanging from the back of the bathroom door. Everything looked still, untouched, almost peaceful.
Almost.
Natalia rose and pulled one of Dimitri's shirts over her head, crisp, black, and oversized on her. It smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. When she walked toward the living room, she heard Dimitri's low voice, measured, sharp, pressed into a phone call.
"Yes… I saw," he said quietly. "And no, I'm not responding. They want a reaction. They will get silence."
