Chapter 7: The Swan at the Café
The café in the Cheil Building was an oasis of calm elegance, all soft lighting, minimalist décor, and the gentle clink of porcelain. It was a world away from the frantic energy of the Gangnam streets below. Luca spotted her immediately. She was sitting alone at a small table by the window, a single espresso and a book before her. Elena.
She was even more striking in person. She wore a simple grey wool dress that highlighted her slender frame and impeccable posture. She seemed utterly absorbed in her book, a small frown of concentration on her face, a world apart from the socialites and businessmen chatting around her.
Luca didn't approach directly. He ordered a double espresso at the counter and took a seat at an adjacent table, placing himself just at the edge of her peripheral vision. He didn't look at her; he opened a financial journal on his tablet, seemingly engrossed. He was a patient hunter, letting the prey become aware of his presence.
After a few minutes, he saw her glance up, her eyes flicking towards him. He was an anomaly here—a rugged European face in a sea of Korean businessmen, radiating a quiet intensity that didn't match the placid surroundings. He waited for her to look up a second time before he made his move.
He closed his tablet and turned to her slightly. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said in English, his voice low and calm. "But is that 'The Master and Margarita'?"
Elena looked up, surprised. Her eyes, he noted, were a startling, clear blue. "Yes, it is," she replied, her accent a soft, melodic Russian lilt. "You know it?"
"It's a favorite. A brilliant satire on corruption and the absurdity of power," Luca said, offering a small, genuine smile. "A man gets his head cut off and then attends a party as a ghost. It feels strangely… relevant sometimes."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Not many people here know Bulgakov. They usually ask if I am reading a fashion magazine."
"Then they're not looking properly," Luca said. He gestured to the empty chair at her table. "May I? I promise not to talk about decapitations if it makes you uncomfortable."
She hesitated for a moment, assessing him. He could see the calculation in her eyes: he was handsome, well-dressed, and clearly wealthy. But more than that, he had engaged her on her own intellectual terms, not just her physical appearance. She nodded. "Please."
He moved to her table. Up close, he could see the fine lines of fatigue around her eyes, the slight tension in her shoulders. The life of a foreign dancer was one of relentless discipline and constant pressure.
"My name is Luca," he said, not offering a last name.
"Elena."
"A beautiful name. It suits you." He took a sip of his espresso. "The Korean National Ballet is lucky to have you. I saw your Giselle last week. Your performance was breathtaking. The vulnerability you brought to the second act was… haunting."
Her eyes widened in genuine surprise. "You were there? Most of our patrons are… older. Corporate seats."
"I appreciate art in all its forms," Luca said smoothly. "And true talent is rare. It should be recognized." He leaned back, his posture relaxed and open. "It's a difficult life, isn't it? So far from home. The rehearsals, the pressure, the politics."
It was a masterful stroke. He had complimented her talent, shown himself to be a genuine admirer, and then immediately demonstrated empathy for her struggles. He wasn't just flattering her; he was seeing her.
Elena's guarded expression softened. "It is. Sometimes it feels… lonely. You give everything to your art, and it is never quite enough."
"I understand that more than you might think," Luca said, his voice taking on a darker, more introspective tone. "The relentless pursuit of a goal. The sacrifices. The feeling that the world doesn't see the work, only the result."
He was mirroring her feelings, building a bridge of shared experience. They talked for twenty minutes. He guided the conversation, asking perceptive questions about her life in St. Petersburg, her training, her dreams. He shared just enough about himself—a vague mention of being in "international finance," a love for literature and art—to seem open while revealing nothing of substance. He was building a character for her: Luca, the sophisticated, worldly connoisseur.
When her phone buzzed with a reminder for an evening rehearsal, she looked genuinely disappointed.
"I've taken too much of your time," Luca said, rising gracefully.
"No, not at all. It was… a pleasant surprise," she said, gathering her book.
"Perhaps another surprise, then," Luca said, his tone casual. "There's a private viewing of a collection of Degas's ballet sketches at the Leeum Museum tomorrow evening. The public isn't allowed in, but I could arrange it. It seems a shame for someone of your passion to miss it."
He saw the conflict in her eyes. The desire to say yes, warring with the caution of accepting an invitation from a virtual stranger.
"It's not a date," he assured her, his voice gentle. "Consider it a meeting of two admirers of art. Nothing more."
The reassurance, the framing of it as a shared intellectual pursuit, was the key. She smiled, a real, warm smile this time. "I would like that very much."
"Excellent. I'll send a car for you at seven." He gave a slight, courteous nod. "Until tomorrow, Elena."
He turned and walked away, not looking back. He could feel her eyes on him. The hook was set. The first move in this delicate dance was complete. He had offered her a glimpse of a world of refinement and understanding, a stark contrast to the grueling, lonely reality of her life. He was not just acquiring a woman; he was curating a piece of his collection, a beautiful, fragile swan for his gilded, post-apocalyptic pond.