First message
The Party – Monaco, 11:47 PM
Eleven minutes. I've been trapped here for eleven minutes, and I've already imagined throwing myself off this penthouse balcony at least four times.
The man talking at me—some Greek shipping heir with a name I forgot the second it left his mouth—hasn't stopped once. Not for breath. Not for my obvious lack of response. He's currently detailing the marble selection in his yacht's master bathroom as if I've personally asked.
"—and the craftsman came from Carrara himself, so naturally the cost was—"
I blink. Slow. Deliberate.
Then I let my face go slack. Blank. The look I've perfected since I was fourteen and realized most people will leave you alone if they think you're too stupid to understand them.
"Sorry," I say, flattening my accent into something thick and graceless. "I no understand. Little English. Russian."
The heir pauses. "What?"
I shrug expansively, nearly clipping his shoulder with my elbow. "Da. Only Russian. Sorry."
For a glorious half-second, I think he's going to walk away. But no—this one has the survival instincts of a goldfish.
"Oh." He brightens, as if he's just discovered a solution to world hunger. "Well, the stabilization system is really quite intuitive, you see—"
Jesus Christ. I'm calculating escape routes when I see you.
Actually, I say, in the precise, unaccented English I was educated in, "I changed my mind."
He blinks up at me. "You—you speak English?"
I don't answer. I'm already walking toward you