I don't know if I've ever told you that my hair is the color of cinnamon.
Not bright red. Not copper. Not orange. Cinnamon — warm, strange, impossible to pin down in a simple word. A color that seems to change depending on the light and on the eyes that look at it. Sometimes it seems gentle. Other times it feels like a mistake.
There's only one thing I know for sure: I've never met anyone else.
I'm the only person with this kind of hair that I know. So rare that, sometimes, I get the feeling I wasn't meant to exist.
My father had black hair, olive skin, hard, sharply drawn features — the kind of man who took up space without asking permission. When he saw me for the first time, I was told he froze. My mother has told me the scene a few times, always with different details, always with more guilt in her voice.
"It's not mine," he said.
He didn't ask. He didn't look for explanations. He didn't look at me like a child.
He looked at the color.
At my thick, reddish hair, shining unnaturally against skin far too pale for his world. Like a stain. Like an insult.
He had fits. He screamed. He slammed things. He drank. A lot. He left.
And no, it wasn't one of those dramatic departures that come back with promises. It was a dirty, fragmented disappearance. He came back from time to time, just enough to leave traces behind: a broken door, a crying mother, an empty bottle on the table. Sometimes, just enough to hit Elena too.
But never enough to be a father. Never enough to stay.
My mother says everything changed after me.
That she didn't know what she'd done wrong. That she looked at me and didn't recognize herself. That people stopped her on the street asking where I'd come from, whether I was adopted, whether I was really hers. That those looks gnawed at her slowly, day after day, until she found something to shut them up.
Drugs.
She says it started gently. To sleep. To stop thinking. To stop feeling the weight of the question no one ever asked out loud, but that she carried on her shoulders: Why does my child look like this?
So if we're looking for someone to blame for the shit I'm in, we found it early.
My hair. The color of cinnamon.
My father left because of it. My mother got lost because of it. And I grew up learning that what I am — without having done anything — can destroy.
When I was little, I hid it.
I tied it tight, stuffed it under hats, under hoods, under caps that were too big. I wanted it to be ordinary. To be brown. To be black. To be anything, as long as it didn't draw attention.
But attention found me anyway.
At school. On the street. Later, at the bar.
"Is it natural?" — "Is it dyed?" — "Can I touch it?"
As if I were a rare object in a display case, not a person.
Anyway. Enough with the self-pity.
I ended up in Russia.
Everything happened too fast for me to process it: the enormous, cold airport, the white lights, hurried footsteps, people stepping aside without asking anything. Duca's world doesn't slow down. It just drags you along with it.
Now we're in a black car, long and low — a Mercedes Maybach gliding smoothly over the asphalt, almost silently, as if the city itself had been built especially for it.
The interior smells of expensive leather and cold air held outside by force. I'm sitting in the back seat, my forehead resting against the window, watching.
"Moscow," someone told me.
And it's stunning.
Not in a sweet or welcoming way. It's beautiful, cold, self-assured, monumental. Massive buildings, golden domes catching the pale daylight, wide boulevards where cars flow like carefully drawn lines.
Ivar and Duca are talking up front, in fast, sharp Russian. Low voices. Business. Routes. Names. Things that don't include me. And that's fine. I'm not trying to enter their world.
I'm looking out the window.
And then I see her.
A woman with red hair. I blink, convinced I'm imagining it. But no.
Two streets later, another one. And then another.
The third red-haired person in less than half an hour.
I feel the corner of my mouth lift into a small, almost disbelieving smile. A smile I haven't worn in a long time.
Seriously?
In the place where my color was a sentence, here it seems… normal. No one turns around. No one stares. No one seems surprised by the existence of cinnamon.
I lean closer to the window and make a little game, just for myself.
One.
Two.
Three.
I count them silently, like rescue points scattered through the city. Women. Men. Young. Older. Light red. Dark red. Copper. Cinnamon.
For the first time in my life, I'm not the only one.
And that thought warms me more than the car's heating ever could.
Maybe Russia will break me in other ways. Maybe this new world will be just as dangerous, only better dressed.
But for a few minutes, while the city slides past me and my hair is no longer an anomaly, I allow myself to smile.
Seven redheads later, the car slows down.
It stops in front of a massive hotel.
The kind of hotel that doesn't need its name written in huge letters on the façade, because it knows exactly who it is. The kind of hotel where you leave your car without asking a single question, because the valet walking toward you is clearly dressed better than I am. Perfect suit, polished shoes, confident movements. He takes the keys without hurry, as if this were the most ordinary part of his day.
I get out too.
Duca steps out first, walks around the car, and without asking permission, takes my hand. His palm is large, warm, steady. It's not an intimate gesture, but a practical one. Guiding. Protective.
We go inside.
The hotel lobby is enormous, open, flooded with light. Everything gleams: marble, glass, metal. All around us, shops with immaculate displays, dresses that look like works of art, handbags more expensive than everything I've ever owned put together. I feel my stomach tighten.
It's too much—too big, too expensive, too foreign.
I feel myself slipping.
And if Duca weren't holding my hand, I truly would.
We take a few steps, then stop abruptly. I don't have time to react and bump into his back. I look up, startled, convinced I've done something wrong.
Duca turns around.
He smiles. A simple, calm smile, surprisingly reassuring.
"Everything's fine," he says, as if he's read my thoughts.
He slips his hand into his jacket pocket and holds out a black card, glossy. Heavy.
"I'm sorry," he adds. "I've got something to take care of for about half an hour. I can't take you with me."
He closes my fingers around the card before I can protest.
"Spend whatever you want."
I blink.
"Get yourself a dress for tonight too," he continues, casually, as if he were telling me to grab a coffee. "We're going to a club."
My heart makes a strange little leap. Club. Dress. Tonight.
Before I can say anything, Duca turns toward Gaston, who's standing a bit farther back, silent, with that constant presence that doesn't demand attention yet somehow dominates it.
"Take care of her like the apple of your eye," he says.
Gaston inclines his head for a fraction of a second. That's all. Enough.
Duca squeezes my hand once, briefly, then leans down and kisses me in passing. A short kiss, almost absentminded. When he pulls away, I realize that for a moment I'd borrowed his breath and his heartbeat—and only then do I hear mine returning. He lets go of my hand and leaves, already focused on something else, on another world.
I stay where I am, the card in my hand, the glittering shops around me, Gaston at my side.
And with the clear sensation that I've just been thrown into a reality I was never prepared for.
Trying to explain how hard it was to find my bearings in that shining labyrinth would be pointless, because even I didn't know where I was going—only that I was moving forward, step by step, with the constant feeling that every display window, every reflection in the polished marble was pulling me farther and farther away from myself.
Finding a dress while Gaston trailed me—present without being intrusive, attentive without seeming watchful—proved far harder than I'd imagined. The hotel felt like it had been designed specifically to make you lose yourself: shops following one another in an endless sequence, displays immaculate, almost ostentatiously perfect, warm lights falling over me in a way that made me feel small, out of place, like the wrong splash of color in a painting that cost too much.
Gaston walked one step behind me, close enough for his presence to feel like constant pressure, far enough not to seem like a leash. And yet, that's exactly what it was. An invisible one.
At some point, without meaning to, my thoughts slipped in a dangerous direction, almost instinctively.
To run.
To lose myself in the crowd, to vanish between shelves and hangers, to get away from him, to win my freedom—maybe even my life. The idea pulsed through my mind for a fraction of a second, intense, tempting, almost sweet.
Then it collapsed under its own weight.
Where would I have run? How? To whom?
And above all, what would have become of Elena, left behind at home, far from everything that was happening now?
Reality hit me cold and without mercy. My freedom was no longer just mine—it hadn't been for a long time. I carried it on my shoulders, bound to a child sleeping peacefully, convinced that the world is, for the most part, a safe place.
I swallowed my thoughts, gathered what courage I had, and stopped.
"I'm looking for a dress," I said quietly, almost like a confession.
Gaston inclined his head for a fraction of a second. That was all. Acceptance. Permission.
I stepped into a boutique without a large sign, just a discreet name engraved in glass. Inside, there was silence—a costly, carefully calculated silence—among fine fabrics and deep colors. The saleswoman looked at me for a moment, then, without hesitation, shifted her attention to Gaston. She understood the rules without anyone having to explain them.
I saw the dress almost immediately.
It was black, short, backless—the kind of cut that doesn't ask for attention, yet gets it anyway. Simple. Clean. Dangerous without being ostentatious. The fabric fell heavy and fluid, barely covering my ass.
"That one," I said, surprisingly sure of myself. The saleswoman understood immediately, even though I'd spoken in English, smiling softly as she disappeared among the racks and returned moments later not only with the dress, but also with a pair of shoes that looked as if they'd been made for it.
I slipped them on almost mechanically, and when I stood up, the woman looked at me with a kind of warm, genuine satisfaction, then smiled.
"Beautiful," she said in Russian.
In the fitting room, when I pulled the dress over me, my hands were trembling. The mirror showed me a version of myself I had never seen before: cinnamon-colored hair falling freely over my shoulders, my pale skin in sharp contrast with the deep black of the fabric, the line of my back— for the first time—deliberate, claimed, intentional.
I lifted my gaze.
And that's when I saw him.
Duca was behind me.
I don't know how long he'd been there. I hadn't heard him come in. Only his eyes, caught in the mirror, held me in place, as if the air between us had solidified.
He was looking at me as if I were a miracle, with a dangerous blend of love and desire in his gaze.
"I knew you were beautiful," he said softly. "From the moment I saw you, I was aware of that."
He took a step closer.
"But now," he added, "you're a dream, little love."
My breath caught in my chest and, for a moment that lasted too long, I completely forgot where I was—because Duca stepped into the fitting room beside me as if it belonged to him, and the space instantly shrank, filled with his calm, assured presence, impossible to ignore.
With smooth movements, almost tender, he gathered my hair as it hung heavy down my back and swept it over my shoulder, baring my skin like a secret only he had the right to see. His palm then slid slowly downward, tracing the length of my back, caressing the exposed skin, drawing my spine with a patience that made me tremble from somewhere deep— from the core of my pelvis, from a part of me that was awakening for the first time.
A deep moan escaped him, unbidden, like a confession.
I was barely breathing.
He leaned in and kissed my skin—first my shoulder blade, then higher, slowly, following an invisible line toward my neck—and each touch ignited something new, something dangerous, inside me. I barely existed anymore. I felt myself melting, burning, certain that if he stayed pressed against me for one more second, I would burst into flames entirely.
And for the first time, it didn't scare me at all.
Duca stood beside me in the fitting room without hurry, as if that small space had always been ours. With fluid, almost tender movements, he gathered my hair again and drew it over my shoulder, freeing the bare skin the dress left exposed.
His fingers slid slowly down, tracing my spine, caressing every centimeter of revealed skin, and his touch was so attentive, so aware of me, that a deep sound slipped from his chest—low, grave, almost painful.
I trembled.
Not from fear, not from cold, but from somewhere deep inside—from the center of my pelvis, from the core of me awakened for the first time truly alive, as if until then I had merely existed, and only now, only now, I was beginning to feel.
He leaned in, and his lips touched the bare skin of my back—first at my shoulder blade, in a slow kiss, then higher, following the sensitive line toward my neck, leaving behind a sweet, unbearable burn.
I could barely breathe.
I barely existed.
I felt that if this lasted one more second, if he touched me once more, I would catch fire.
"Alla…" he whispered, and my name, spoken so low, so close, ran through my body like a slow, deep shiver, impossible to stop.
Then he pressed his entire length against my back, unhurried, without forcing anything, and I felt the shape of his desire immediately through the fine fabric of the dress—warm, present, claiming. His breath brushed the nape of my neck, and his large hand closed around the back of my throat, firm, protective, making me straighten instinctively, as if my body knew exactly what it was meant to do for him.
I lifted my eyes to the mirror.
The image was delicious and deceptive.
A tall man, shockingly handsome, dark and powerful, stood pressed against me, holding me close with a certainty that left no room for doubt. And beside him was me—his little love, young, fresh, with that naive light still burning in my eyes, as if I didn't yet know what it truly meant to burn.
For a moment, I looked exactly the way I had never been.
His.
"Look at yourself," he whispered, his voice low, warm, so close to my ear that the words slid over my skin before I understood them. "Look at what you do to me."
Duca was the first to pull away, and the way he did it said more than any earlier gesture of closeness.
He detached himself from me with the same control with which he had approached, as if that intensity hadn't been an accident, but a flame he knew exactly when—and how—to extinguish.
His palm slowly leaves my throat, our steps separate, and the cold air that slips in between us falls heavy, almost painful.
"Take the dress," he says calmly, in that low, steady voice. "I'll be waiting outside."
He steps out of the fitting room before I can say anything, leaving me alone with the mirror, with my reflection still lit up by his touch, and with the dress hanging on my body like an unspoken, weighty promise.
After that, everything seems to move faster, as if the world has suddenly decided to catch up with me.
At the hotel reception, Duca speaks calmly and confidently, answered in flawless English, while I stand a little behind him, still slightly dizzy, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. He tells the receptionist that his girlfriend has lost her luggage, and his tone is so natural, so unhurried, that the statement sounds like a simple fact, not an explanation.
"I'd like all the top cosmetic products available in the hotel to be sent up to the room," he continues.
The woman nods immediately, already taking notes, without asking a single question.
Without looking directly at me, Duca adds my sizes—said after just one glance over my body—with a precision that makes me swallow hard, suddenly aware of how carefully he's read me.
"And a few sets of basic clothes, until we have time to shop properly," he adds.
We will.
The word settles between us with a quiet, almost final weight.
We go up to the room. Everything is large, elegant, almost overwhelming: tall windows, heavy drapes, the discreet scent of cleanliness and luxury. Duca approaches me without hurry, cups my face in his hands, and kisses me briefly, deeply, like a seal being set.
Then he pulls away again.
"I'll see you later, little love," he says.
And he leaves.
I remain alone in the middle of the room, the dress and shoes in their bag, the expensive silence pressing in from all sides, and the clear sensation that I've just been placed—carefully and decisively—into a life that was never truly mine.