Girls' Night (Manifesto)

[Sofia Vasilieva]

Sofia watched the woman approach with no real attempt at hiding her scrutiny. A small gesture eased Colette’s passage through the security surreptitiously spaced around the table, though of course they knew exactly who was expected. The signal was more for the benefit of her guest than her people; a negligent flex of power wielded. The woman was pleasingly beautiful, and the dress was divine. Both points that went in her favour as she took her seat in Sofia’s current kingdom. She smiled a gracious welcome, and shook the hand offered, though she found it formal.

“Sofia,” she said, dispensing the ceremony. Whether Colette chose to perceive a rival or an ally was entirely up to her, but for Sofia’s part there was no coldness. Colette was beautiful and alone. The men of Moscow would eat her alive, take everything she was willing (or unwilling) to give, and spit her right back out to New York. Unless she chose her friends here carefully.

“Uncle Valentin sends his apologies.” Which, of course, he really didn’t, but Colette would know that. She paused her attention to imperiously gesture a server return, either to pour Colette a glass from the bottle chilling on ice on the table, or to take her order; whichever she preferred. “How are you finding Moscow?”