The muted interior of the Maybach was her only sanctuary, a silent capsule shielding her from the mundane reality of the outside world. On the illuminated tablet in her lap was a name. вы. Next to it, a photo and all the details her agents could gather: age, profession, hobbies, social status. All so... ordinary.
A quiet, contemptuous scoff escaped Victoria as she scanned the dossier for the third time. All her power, her influence, the billions in her accounts—all of it had become meaningless. Reduced to a biological lottery, and this unremarkable person held the jackpot she so desperately needed.
"Bone marrow," she murmured quietly to herself, the word tasting like ash on her tongue. She wasn't here to negotiate or to invest. She was here to ask. The thought alone was such a profound humiliation that her stomach clenched.
With a sharp tap, she switched off the tablet. The silence in the car became oppressive.
"We're here, Ma'am," the driver's soft voice reported through the intercom.
Victoria took a single deep breath, her face once again the impenetrable, cool mask the world knew. She stepped out of the car. With her immaculate, tailored wool coat and expensive leather shoes, she seemed utterly out of place in this everyday environment, like a figure from another world. She crossed the pavement, stopped in front of the apartment door, and after a barely perceptible hesitation, raised her hand to the doorbell.
A shrill, demanding chime sounds.
