The city was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning.
No honking. No construction noise. Just the rhythmic slap of Elara's sneakers against the pavement and the whisper of early spring wind brushing against her cheeks.
She liked it this way—before the chaos of honking taxis, coffee-fueled tourists, and buzzing phones took over. In these fleeting hours, the city belonged to her.
A podcast murmured in her ears, but she barely heard it. Her thoughts wandered as she followed the same route she always did—through the tree-lined path along the Hudson, past the flower stalls still closed with their metal grates drawn down, and toward the old pier where seagulls bickered over scraps of bread.
This was her ritual. Her sanity.
Elara inhaled deeply, the chill biting into her lungs. The air smelled faintly of salt, exhaust, and something sweet—distantly, a bakery waking up. Her breath fogged in front of her, but her body was warm now, alive with motion. Sweat beaded along her spine, and her ponytail flicked rhythmically behind her with each stride.
Twenty-six years old, single, not quite where she thought she'd be, she thought bitterly. But not drowning either.
Work at the design firm had been suffocating lately—clients changing their minds last minute, her boss dumping responsibility on her because "you're the only one I trust, Elara." She liked her job, truly, but sometimes she wondered if it liked her back.
She slowed to a stop near the waterfront, yanking out one earbud as she leaned against a low stone wall. Her heart thumped pleasantly, her chest rising and falling in measured breaths.
The river was calm today, the gray water mirroring the overcast sky. A few runners passed her, couples with dogs or solo fitness junkies nodding politely as they passed.
Elara smiled at them, wiping sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her hoodie.
This moment—this exact kind of moment—was what she lived for. Stillness wrapped in movement. Solitude without loneliness.
She took out her water bottle and sipped, sighing as the cool liquid soothed her dry throat. Her phone buzzed with a text.
[Maya]: You up? Brunch at 11. Wear something cute. We're going to that rooftop place in SoHo.
Elara chuckled and typed back:
[Me]: Just finished running. Do I own anything cute?
Maya replied instantly:
[Maya]: You own a face. That's enough. Be ready.
She laughed softly and shook her head. Maya had been her roommate all through college—chaotic, impulsive, always dating the worst kind of men. But loyal. Fiercely loyal. The kind of friend who would hide a body for you without asking questions.
Elara's phone vibrated again, this time with a news notification:
BREAKING: Another body found near East 43rd Pier. Police suspect gang involvement.
She frowned. That was too close to home.
Third this month, if she remembered right. No names. No arrests. The media danced around the word "mafia," but everyone knew—whispers in alleyways, warnings from doormen to keep your eyes down, the occasional black SUV parked too long on the curb.
Still, the city moved on.
Elara slipped her phone back into her armband. The moment was broken now. The calmness fraying into unease.
She turned to jog back, trying to shake the chill that had nothing to do with the morning wind.
As she passed the pier again, she saw something that made her slow down.
A man.
Tall. Alone. Dressed too well for a morning by the river—black wool coat, leather gloves, polished shoes that hadn't touched dirt in days. He stood with his back to her, staring out across the water, unmoving.
He didn't look like a runner. Or a tourist.
He looked like someone who didn't need to move unless he wanted to.
Something about him made her skin prickle. Not fear. Not attraction.
Attention.
As if the world bent slightly around his presence.
She shook herself and jogged past, telling herself it was nothing. Just another rich man contemplating life, maybe waiting for a driver.
She didn't know—couldn't know—that she had just passed Nikolai Volkov.
That in a few days, that man would walk into her life, call her solnishko, and ruin everything she thought she knew about love.
But for now, Elara ran.
And he watched.
Elara slammed the door shut with her hip and kicked off her sneakers with a satisfied sigh, the rubber soles thudding softly against the hardwood floor. The apartment was quiet, bathed in the buttery morning light streaming through the windows. Her jog had left her flushed and energized, but the thought of a warm shower and strong coffee pulled her in like a magnet.
She peeled off her hoodie and leggings on the way to the bathroom, leaving a trail behind her like breadcrumbs. As the water poured from the showerhead, she stepped in and let it wash over her, her muscles relaxing under the heat. She stayed in there longer than she should've—thinking about nothing and everything all at once.
After she dried off and wrapped herself in a towel, she made herself a quick cup of coffee and padded barefoot to her bedroom. Her phone buzzed again.
[Maya]: I swear to God, Elara, if you show up in jeans and a ponytail again, I will disown you. This is brunch, not a mechanic's convention.
Elara snorted and typed back quickly.
[Me]: Excuse you. I was going for "relaxed chic."
[Maya]: You looked like you were going to ask for someone's oil change.
Elara rolled her eyes, laughing as she set the phone on speaker and dialed Maya's number. The line picked up before the first ring finished.
"Finally!" Maya greeted, her voice full of mock frustration. "I was about to call 911."
Elara opened her closet and pulled out a few hangers. "You're so dramatic. I just got back from my jog."
"And have you picked your brunch outfit?"
"That's what you're here for." She flopped onto the bed with three potential outfits and held the phone up. "Okay. Option one: the white wrap dress with the floral print."
Maya made a loud humming noise. "That one makes your boobs look amazing."
Elara laughed. "Duly noted."
"What's option two?"
"The navy jumpsuit with the gold zippers. The one you made me buy last month and then told me I wasn't cool enough to wear."
"I stand by that statement. But I've grown. Let me see it."
Elara held it up in front of the mirror and turned sideways. The jumpsuit hugged her waist perfectly, the V-neck just deep enough to suggest without screaming. Still, she frowned. "I feel like I'm trying too hard."
"Trying too hard is the point. We're going to SoHo. If you don't look like an off-duty model or a curated Pinterest board, they won't seat us."
Elara rolled her eyes. "So dramatic."
"And option three?" Maya prompted.
Elara hesitated. "Don't judge me."
"Never."
She lifted the hanger slowly, revealing a simple black midi dress with spaghetti straps and a slit on one side.
There was a pause on the line.
"Elara. Yes."
"You didn't even let me finish!"
"I don't need to. You'll look like a Bond girl who decided she was done taking orders and started her own empire."
Elara looked at the dress again. She had bought it months ago but never had the nerve to wear it. It clung in the right places, showed just enough leg to be dangerous, and paired with heels—it was lethal.
"I don't know," she murmured. "It's a bit much for pancakes."
"Then get a waffle," Maya said without missing a beat. "Black dress. Gold hoops. Hair down. Thank me later."
Elara smiled in spite of herself. "You're ridiculous."
"And fabulous. Don't forget fabulous."
She turned to the mirror again and held the dress in front of her. Maybe it was time she stopped hiding behind soft fabrics and safe colors. Maybe she deserved to feel bold for once. Seen. Confident.
"All right," she said slowly. "I'll do it."
"That's my girl," Maya cheered. "Now put it on and send me a photo before you change your mind."
As Elara ended the call, she set the black dress on the bed, smoothing the fabric like it was something sacred.
Today felt different somehow.
She couldn't explain it.
But something in the air—maybe in the way the sunlight hit her window, or how still the apartment felt—buzzed beneath her skin.
She pushed the feeling aside. It was just brunch with her best friend. Rooftops and overpriced lattes.
No harm in that.
Right?