The Paris apartment was a lie wrapped in silk.
A week ago, Sofia Morozova had lived on the edge of starvation — the chill of an empty stove, the taste of stale bread, the scrape of fabric she'd mended too many times. Now, her world gleamed. Perfume masked the ghost of hunger, champagne replaced the sound of rats in the walls, and silk brushed her skin like a promise she didn't trust.
It was luxury without freedom. A golden cage. And she was the songbird inside, being trained to sing someone else's tune.
She stood before a full-length mirror, staring at the stranger reflected there. Hélène de Beaumont — elegant, mournful, untouchable. The crimson silk gown draped around her like confidence made tangible. Every line of her posture, every breath, had been molded into perfection.
Behind her stood Kato — silent, watchful, precise. She had arrived from the East two days earlier, taking control of Sofia's transformation with ruthless focus. There was no friendship between them, only mastery and submission.
"No," Kato said quietly, stepping closer. She adjusted the fall of the fabric over Sofia's shoulder. "Too rigid. You're not a governess. Shoulders back, chin slightly down — yes, like that. Dignity, not arrogance. You're mourning, not reigning."
The training had been relentless. A crash course in seduction and survival. Kato wasn't simply teaching her to dress or walk — she was building a persona, brick by brick.
Racks of gowns and coats lined the wall, each tagged for a specific purpose: mourning dinner, embassy soirée, chance encounter.
"Colonel Orlov admires tradition," Kato had said earlier, rejecting a daring modern dress with a curt shake of her head. "He despises excess. Old-world elegance — soft lines, muted colors. He must see refinement, not hunger."
She had lifted a sapphire gown from its hanger, its color deep and cold. "This one for your first meeting. Blue suggests melancholy and restraint. Men like Orlov want to rescue sadness."
Every detail had meaning. Every lie, a tool. Kato drilled her constantly, forcing her to embody the illusion.
"Your husband's name?"
"Jean-Luc de Beaumont," Sofia recited, her accent flawless.
"His favorite opera?"
"La Traviata," she said automatically. "He said Violetta reminded him of happiness too fragile to last."
"Good," Kato replied. "You will grieve beautifully, but not too much. Loneliness invites company. Despair does not."
The persona was complete — right down to the smallest forgery. A passport stamped in Switzerland. Letters of credit from a Geneva bank. A diary, written in a graceful hand, documenting a year of mourning. All lies, but the kind that could stand up to scrutiny.
That afternoon, Koba arrived. He didn't knock. He entered like a man who already owned the room.
He paused in the doorway of the drawing room, watching as Kato corrected Sofia's grip on a porcelain teapot. For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked between them — the architect and the creation.
"The preparations are complete?" His voice cut the air.
"She's ready," Kato said simply.
Koba approached Sofia. He didn't ask if she felt ready — feelings were irrelevant. "Your purpose is to become essential," he said, his tone quiet but absolute. "He must believe you're the one honest thing left in his world. Make him depend on you. Let his guard down. Then take what we need."
He handed her a small silk-bound notebook. "You'll use these topics to steer conversation. Casual remarks, nothing forced. A rumor about railway shortages. A complaint about French steel. Mention grain delays or procurement costs. Each word is a thread. Pull them gently."
Sofia turned the book in her hands. Her heart pounded beneath the sapphire fabric, but her voice was calm. "I understand."
Koba studied her. He saw what he'd made — the perfect balance of poise and submission. A weapon polished to brilliance.
That evening, she stood before the mirror again, this time in the sapphire gown. The reflection took her breath away. She was luminous — a creature carved from grace and melancholy.
Koba entered quietly, carrying a black velvet box.
"A final detail," he said. He opened it to reveal a sapphire necklace, the stones rich and cold as twilight. "A gift from your benefactor."
He stepped behind her, the faint scent of tobacco and iron following him. His hands brushed her skin as he fastened the clasp. The jewels were icy against her throat.
Then he leaned close. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Do not fail, Sofia."
The deliberate use of her real name hit like a slap.
"Your brother Dmitri," Koba continued, his tone calm, almost kind. "Such promise. Such a fragile future. See that both remain… intact."
He stepped back, his reflection looming behind her — the shadow to her light.
The sapphires glittered in the mirror, but all Sofia could feel was the weight. It wasn't jewelry. It was a chain.
From the doorway, Kato watched. Her face revealed nothing, but something in her eyes flickered — pity, perhaps, or recognition. She had crafted the weapon; now she had to watch it be loaded.
For a brief, fragile moment, Sofia's gaze met hers in the mirror. Two women, two captives, bound by the will of the same man.
And then the moment passed.
Hélène de Beaumont turned from the mirror, every trace of Sofia Morozova buried beneath silk, sapphires, and silence.