Victor's voice softens.
"You're broken. So am I.
Come, let's rebuild ourselves together…
And if we must burn—then we burn together."
He presses a deep, assuring kiss to Alia's forehead.
Victor looks at Alia with a faint smile and says,
"Let's go to the party tonight. You and me.
Tonight, I'll introduce you to everyone…
But one thing—no one must know you're CIA."
Alia looks surprised, a little tense, but her eyes ignite with a kind of wild excitement.
She nods silently.
---
She wears a white Marmet gown with a soft satin overlay.
Beneath the dress, a shimmer of delicate work catches the light.
Her hair is left loose, flowing in natural waves.
Honey-colored lenses in her eyes, soft nude shade on her lips.
A thin diamond necklace, matching bracelet, and a white diamond Rolex on her wrist.
Diamond earrings complete the look—every piece expensive and flawless.
She looks like a princess… yet a warrior, too.
Victor, in a black suit—no shirt or tie—radiates a rugged, modern elegance.
He holds Alia's hand and opens the Rolls Royce door.
Inside, the air is laced with a soft sandalwood scent.
Behind them, two Mercedes-Benz SUVs, one filled with armed bodyguards.
They escort them silently the entire way.
The car stops at the illuminated entrance of Hotel Palazzo Novaya.
Glass doors open to reveal glittering chandeliers, camera flashes,
and whispers from the guests—
"There's Victor… but who's with him?"
Alia doesn't smile.
Only a clever curve touches the corner of her lips.
She knows—tonight, their identities won't be the only things to change.
Someone's fate might, too.
---
Scene: Russian Elite Party – Hotel Palazzo Novaya
Golden lights dazzle off the marble floors of the luxury hotel.
VIPs in expensive suits and glittering jewelry fill the grand hall.
A slow electric jazz track plays through the air.
Suddenly, everyone turns.
Standing there—Alia.
Her white Marmet gown seems to absorb the light of the chandeliers.
Her honey-colored eyes are cold, unflinching.
She walks with a rhythm of pure confidence, as if nothing can touch her.
Click! Click!—People snap photos.
---
The Mafia Boss – Dmitri Karasov
Sitting at a distance is Dmitri Karasov—
a ruthless Russian mafia lord. White hair, snow-white suit, and a cigar in hand.
He watches Alia.
No—he reads her with his eyes.
His gaze narrows.
He gestures to his men.
"Кто она?" (Who is she?)
---
Victor stands beside Alia.
He leans in and whispers in her ear,
"He's watching… and wondering who you are."
A pause—
"But don't worry. I know who you are. That's enough."
Victor then raises his glass of whiskey and calmly looks at Dmitri—
a subtle nod, layered with meaning.
Dmitri lifts a brow in acknowledgment.
But a crooked smile plays on his lips.
He knows… something isn't right.
---
Scene – Rising Tension at the Party
A young Russian man, smirking, says loudly:
"Victor, you're not just dangerous—
you brought such a beautiful woman, too?"
His eyes gleam with disrespect, his smile cruel.
The room stills for a moment.
Victor slowly turns around.
No anger in his eyes—but an icy calm that terrifies.
He speaks directly:
"Speak with respect.
I'm not just 'Victor'—that's not just a name.
I am a mafia lord.
And anyone who stands beside me…
Disrespecting them means dragging yourself a foot closer to your grave."
A bodyguard steps forward.
The music halts.
Then—Dmitri Karasov, still seated, says lightly:
"Sorry, Victor…
My man's tongue got ahead of him tonight.
It won't happen again."
---
Alia stands alone in one corner,
a glass of lemon juice in her hand.
Tiredness and deep thought in her eyes.
Suddenly… a strange stillness falls.
From her right side, a stunning figure approaches—
hair pure gold, like sunlight made flesh.
Not a trace of facial hair, skin crystal-clear.
Eyes—icy, calculating.
He stops directly in front of her.
"Alia," — his voice cold, metallic.
Alia looks up, brows furrowed.
"You… Margaret?"
He tilts his head, golden hair falling to the side with a light smile.
"You're still beautiful.
But Victor… why is he still alive?"
---
By then, Victor walks up behind them.
His eyes cold, voice heavy—
"You're lucky, Margaret…
That you're still standing after all these years."
Margaret lets out a soft laugh.
"It wasn't your bullet that almost killed me, Victor.
It was your betrayal.
You might've forgotten—
But I haven't."
The three lock eyes.
Alia: In the middle—trapped between two worlds.
Victor: Former friend, now a razor-sharp mafia lord.
Margaret: The golden enemy, impossible to erase.
---
Margaret turns to Victor and says,
"Victor, I need to speak to Alia. Alone.
I'm taking her to the VIP room. Talk to whoever you want."
Alia pauses for a second, then agrees.
"Alright."
Without turning back, Margaret begins walking.
Alia follows.
At the door to the VIP room, Margaret says calmly,
"Close the door."
Alia hesitates slightly—but the door closes.
Margaret walks up to her and gently touches her hair, fixing a strand.
"You know… no matter how messy your hair gets,
You're still the most beautiful."
A strange emotion flickers in Alia's eyes.
---
Inside the VIP Room—Silence.
As Margaret fixes her hair, Alia says slowly—
Suddenly, Margaret pulls Alia's hand toward her in a swift motion.
Eyes burning, a smirk on her lips—
"You missed me, didn't you, Alia?"
Her voice has a teasing softness.
Alia yanks her hand away in fury.
"No, I didn't!
No one misses someone as vile and deceitful as you."
Margaret pauses, then chuckles softly.
"Yet you came… just like I wanted.
Exactly as I planned."
She looks at Alia for a moment longer.
"But now… you've changed."
Margaret's expression suddenly freezes.
Her smile fades.
She lowers her gaze, voice dropping—
"People don't change because they want to, Alia.
They change because the world leaves them no choice."
Alia slowly stepped back, her eyes sharp like daggers.
"Yes, Mafia boss Margaret.
Your family's history isn't just about blood and fire...
There's a branch known as the 'Angel Mafia.'
Did you know your grandfather's brother was the leader of that faction?"
Margaret's faint smile vanished.
A flicker of surprise passed through her eyes, but she quickly composed herself.
"You know quite a bit, Alia," Margaret replied in a cold voice.
Alia stepped forward now, lowering her voice slightly.
"You know who my father is.
Don't take me lightly."
---
Margaret smiled faintly again, looking directly into Alia's eyes.
Her eyes were calm—but there were sparks of fire dancing beneath the surface.
"I know… exactly who you are," she said slowly.
"There's fire in your blood, just like there is in mine. But remember one thing, Alia—"
She stepped closer, her voice a threatening whisper.
"I'm not just anyone.
I'm the kind of person—man or woman—who doesn't hesitate to eliminate what needs to be erased."
Alia's gaze hardened. Her lips tightened.
Margaret gave a bittersweet smile.
"Yes, my name carries a bad reputation.
But it's that very infamy… that made me a legend.
In this world, fear is not an option."
---
Suddenly, Margaret grabbed Alia's hand and pulled her in.
The room's sound system started playing a soft, mysterious tune—a slow electric tango.
Margaret, wearing a silent smile, began spinning Alia gently.
"You're a clever girl, Alia," she murmured, her gaze filled with a mix of admiration and veiled threat.
The rhythm of the dance deepened.
Then suddenly, Margaret leaned in and whispered into Alia's ear—
"But there's something you don't know…
I'm actually a Russian-Korean man."
Alia froze. Her eyes widened in stunned disbelief.
"...Margaret?" she whispered.
Margaret burst into a cold, sharp laugh.
"You all think I'm some mysterious woman.
But this... this has been my greatest disguise.
I've been playing this game for a very long time."
---
Then Margaret began to sing in a low, haunting Russian voice:
> "Ты не знаешь, кто я, но танцуешь со мной,
В этом свете теней — я твой герой.
Мир мой падает вниз, но я улыбаюсь,"
> ("You don't know who I am, but you're dancing with me,
In this light of shadows — I am your hero.
My world is falling apart, yet I smile,")