Chapter 46 – No Woman Is Immune to Beauty
119 North La Brea Avenue.
An upscale bespoke luxury boutique—the address William had just gotten from Nicole.
A slightly worn Chevrolet pulled up along the curb.
Galina sat in the driver's seat, staring at the elegant storefront across the street.
For a brief moment, her composure wavered.
Despite her brutal upbringing and years of harsh training, she was still just a woman barely in her early twenties.
Shops like this—Western temples of luxury—she had only seen in training manuals and surveillance photographs.
Seeing one in person felt entirely different.
The polished glass.
The curated lighting.
The quiet confidence radiating from the display windows.
Through the rearview mirror, William caught the subtle shift in her expression.
He said nothing. He simply opened the car door and stepped out.
The sound jolted her back to reality.
She inhaled sharply, annoyed with herself.
A lapse in awareness.
A basic mistake.
Unacceptable.
She quickly stepped out and followed him.
"Sorry, boss. I lost focus for a moment."
She lowered her head slightly, clearly displeased with herself.
William waved it off.
"Relax. I'm not blaming you."
He paused, then looked at her more seriously.
"Listen, Galina. This is America. You don't have to stay on edge every second."
He gestured toward the boutique.
"Learn to adapt. Relax when it's time to relax. Be sharp when it's time to be sharp. You don't need to treat everyone like a potential enemy the way you did back in the Soviet Union."
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only matter-of-fact realism.
For someone like Galina, survival had always meant vigilance.
But survival in America required a different skill set.
And as they stood beneath the polished signage of the luxury boutique, one truth quietly surfaced:
No woman, no matter how hardened, is immune to beauty.
Although William didn't know much about that chapter of history, everything he'd picked up from the sources available to him painted the Soviet Union of that era in a far from flattering light.
After hearing his reassurance, Galina nodded.
She looked almost a little… awkward.
William didn't press the matter. With a faint smile, he led her into the couture boutique.
"Welcome to Mon Atelier. Do you have an appointment with one of our designers, sir?"
Mon Atelier—French for "My Studio."
The boutique had been founded in 1986 by designer Ari Rahimi. Though only three years old, it had already built a solid reputation.
"I don't have an appointment," William replied calmly. "Is there a designer available now? I'd like to commission a tailcoat and an evening gown."
The receptionist didn't show the slightest hint of disdain at their lack of reservation. Instead, she remained perfectly professional and warmly guided them inside.
"Mr. Rahimi happens to be in today. Given your figures and appearance, I'm sure he'll be delighted to assist you."
She led them into a lounge area decorated in understated opulence, then excused herself.
Galina scanned the interior.
The polished marble.
The muted gold accents.
The soft lighting and immaculate tailoring displays.
She remained alert—but there was a flicker in her eyes.
Perhaps William felt nothing special in a place like this.
But Galina was still a young woman in her early twenties.
And there is no woman in this world who is immune to beauty.
William gently guided her to sit beside him.
She instinctively resisted. Sitting made rapid response more difficult.
"Galina," William reminded her quietly, "remember what I said."
This was one of Los Angeles' affluent districts. Security was tight. You wouldn't see gang colors here. You wouldn't even casually spot the kind of street elements that roamed rougher neighborhoods.
Anyone visibly out of place would be questioned by police long before trouble could brew.
America was chaotic—but selectively so.
After a brief pause, Galina nodded and sat.
Still, she was stiff.
Part of it was professional instinct—what if something happened and she reacted too slowly?
The other part was simpler.
She didn't belong here.
If she had been assigned to seduce a foreign diplomat, she would have been perfectly composed.
But sitting here as a customer?
That unsettled her.
William noticed, but said nothing.
Everyone has a first time.
Given enough time in America, she would grow into this new identity.
A few minutes later, a short, slightly balding man with a measuring tape draped around his neck emerged from the back.
"Linda, where are the clients you mentioned?"
His voice carried a theatrical flair as he stepped forward—
And then he saw them.
His eyes lit up.
"Oh my—oh my goodness—your proportions! Your posture! This is—this is—ah!"
Before he could finish, he had already circled them twice.
Galina shot to her feet, her hand instinctively dropping to the grip of her concealed firearm.
"Incredible! Absolutely—"
"Galina, relax."
William stood immediately, placing his hand firmly over hers before she could draw.
If she pulled a weapon in a Beverly Hills-adjacent couture boutique, the police response would be… swift.
She instinctively tried to pull away.
But when she exerted force, she realized something unsettling.
William's grip was like steel.
He wasn't hurting her.
But she couldn't move.
Galina prided herself on her strength. The Swallow Program's brutal conditioning, combined with chemical enhancements developed by Soviet scientists, had given her physical capabilities far beyond ordinary women—and even most men.
She was confident she could break Sergei's hold within ten seconds.
But William?
She felt like a lamb.
For a split second, it reminded her of her first day at the training compound—standing before an instructor who made resistance feel meaningless.
"She's my bodyguard," William explained smoothly. "She's recently returned from a conflict zone. Still a bit high-strung."
Rahimi's expression instantly softened.
"Oh, what a poor child. It's always the politicians who ruin young lives like this. Tragic."
He turned back to William sympathetically.
"I know an excellent psychologist. If you ever need a referral—"
"Thank you," William replied with a polite smile. "But we're quite all right. What we do need is attire suitable for an important gala. Mr. Rahimi, would you be able to help us?"
He glanced at the name tag hanging from the designer's neck.
Rahimi placed a dramatic hand over his heart.
"My dear sir," he declared, eyes gleaming, "help you? It would be an honor."