Chapter 6: Threaded Lies
They stepped through automatic glass doors into a vast, echoing atrium bathed in soft artificial daylight from skylights high above. Escalators glided silently between polished marble floors and gleaming railings, ferrying crowds past two or three levels of storefronts. Brightly lit windows displayed everything from high-end fashion brands and electronics giants to quirky local boutiques and pharmacies. The air hummed with a mix of pop music from hidden speakers, the chatter of families and teenagers, and the distant clatter of food court trays.
Elena led the way, her chestnut braid swinging like a pendulum with each eager step. Her cheeks flushed pink from the brisk walk from school, and her fingers clutched the strap of her worn schoolbag as if it anchored her to reality.
"Look!" she exclaimed, her voice bright and melodic, cutting through the ambient murmur. She skidded to a halt, pointing upward with unrestrained delight. There, suspended high above the central escalators, glowed the illuminated marquee of the Cineplex: bold crimson letters announcing the latest blockbuster, Shadows of the Neva, a sweeping thriller that had captivated the city's youth. "The movie theatre! We can still make the four-thirty show if we hurry. Come on, it's got everything—mystery..."
She turned, expecting to see her friends' faces mirror her excitement. Instead, Kira and Dasha exchanged a glance—a fleeting, conspiratorial flicker that spoke volumes without a single word. Kira's lips curved into a half-smile, her sharp green eyes narrowing with that familiar mischief.
Dasha, ever the bold one with her sun-streaked blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail and a smattering of freckles across her nose, merely arched an eyebrow. The look passed between them like a secret current, invisible to outsiders but electric to anyone who knew them as well as Elena did.
Elena's hand dropped slowly, her enthusiasm dimming like a stage light fading to blackout. She knew that look. "Don't tell me we're not going to watch a movie either!" Elena's voice rose, laced with frustration and a hint of betrayal. "You already lied about the park!"
Kira shifted her weight, her fingers twisting the hem of her blouse. A flicker of guilt crossed her features, but it was quickly masked by her usual playful deflection.
Dasha, however, stepped forward, her posture straight and unyielding, the leader who always pulled them into adventures that teetered on the edge of chaos. "Elena, listen—" she began, but the words caught, as if the full weight of their plan suddenly felt too heavy to voice in the open air of the mall.
Elena's eyes widened, searching their faces. "Umm, actually…" Kira started, her voice trailing into an awkward silence. She glanced at Dasha for rescue, cheeks coloring faintly.
Dasha exhaled, a soft laugh escaping her lips—not mocking, but warm, almost apologetic. She placed a gentle hand on Elena's shoulder, her touch reassuring yet insistent. "We're not here for the movie. We're here for clothes. Nice clothes. And… to meet him. Our favorite celebrity. Egor Kreed himself. There's an event which we are about to attend. He will be present. Our only chance to meet him! We don't want to go this way, right?" She gestured vaguely at their uniforms, the starched white collars suddenly feeling like badges of childhood they were desperate to shed.
Elena's mouth opened, then closed. The celebrity part hit her like a plot twist in one of those films she loved—Egor Kreed. For months, they had whispered about him during lunch breaks, imagining what it would feel like to meet him in person.
But reality crashed in hard. "We don't have money for that! Not even for popcorn, let alone outfits that would impress a star like him. Look at us—we're in school uniforms, for heaven's sake. Do you really want to meet him like this?"
Kira and Dasha looked at her, their expressions softening with that mix of affection and determination. "Come on, girl," Dasha coaxed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that wrapped around Elena like a warm scarf. "You know you want this as much as we do. One good outfit, and we blend right in. No one notices three girls in designer chic. We'll be unforgettable."
"But what exactly are you going to do about clothes?" Elena pressed, her voice rising with incredulity. She glanced around, half-afraid someone might overhear their ridiculous scheme. "How are we going to buy some? Do you have enough money?"
Kira and Dasha shook their heads in unison, but their laughter bubbled up—light, carefree, as if the question itself were the punchline to a private joke. Dasha gestured subtly to Kira with a tilt of her chin, and the two linked arms with Elena, propelling her forward through the throng of shoppers toward the gleaming expanse of the luxury wing.
The branded clothing section unfolded before them like a treasure vault: racks of silk blouses shimmering under recessed lighting, mannequins draped in cashmere sweaters and tailored trousers that whispered of elegance and exclusivity. The air here carried a richer scent—subtle notes of sandalwood and vanilla from the diffusers hidden among the displays.
As they crossed the threshold, Elena's eyes widened in quiet horror. Price tags dangled like accusations: 12,500 rubles for a simple midi dress in emerald silk, 28,000 for a tailored blazer that looked as though it had been sewn by angels. Hundreds here, thousands there—figures that danced in the thousands of rubles.
"These are… expensive," Elena whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with awe and dread. "Even if we had some, all of our combined money wouldn't be enough to buy even a sleeve!"
"Exactly," Dasha replied with a wink, her tone matter-of-fact, as if stating the obvious weather.
A saleswoman behind the polished oak counter—mid-thirties, impeccably coiffed in a black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse—lifted her gaze from her tablet. Seeing three schoolgirls, one of them in uniform, her expression shifted from professional courtesy to mild amusement tinged with skepticism.
Street girls playing dress-up, her eyes seemed to say. "What can I help you with today, ladies?" she asked, her voice smooth but edged with a condescending tone.
Dasha turned fully toward her, shoulders squared with the confidence of someone twice her age. "We want some nice clothes. Impress us with whatever you have—the best you've got."
Kira leaned in, adding with a nod, "Yeah, nothing basic. We're not fit for it."
Elena, caught between loyalty and panic, managed a hesitant smile. "Yeah, yeah… we'd accept nothing but…" She faltered, her words evaporating under the saleswoman's scrutiny. The woman's gaze traveled from their scuffed loafers to their neatly tucked blouses, clearly sizing them up as pranksters.
"Expensive," Kira supplied smoothly.
"Classy," Dasha included, her smile unwavering.
"And something… Elegant," Elena finished, her voice small but trying.
The saleswoman's lips pressed into a thin line. "Do you have any money?" The question hung in the air, blunt and disbelieving.
Dasha laughed—a rich, bell-like sound that turned heads from nearby racks. "You're asking about money?" She asked. Kira joined, giggling "To us?"
Dasha echoed, feigning offense with theatrical flair. She reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out a sleek golden credit card that caught the overhead lights like a captured star. "Just because you see our friend here in a uniform doesn't mean we're not rich."
Elena's eyes widened to saucers. The card gleamed with an embossed logo of an elite international bank, its surface pristine, untouched by the wear of teenage hands. Never in her life had she seen anything so audacious.
"Never ever in your life ask a rich girl if she has money," Kira added, her tone laced with mock indignation, playing along perfectly.
The saleswoman's skepticism lingered, a faint crease between her brows. Dasha noticed it immediately. "You can check the balance," she said, extending the card with the poise of a seasoned executive. "Go on."
The woman instantly took it, her fingers brushing the cool metal. Dasha turned to her friends, rolling her eyes with exaggerated exasperation. "So ridiculous that they're doubting us," she muttered under her breath.
"Yeah, I can't believe it," Kira chimed in, shaking her head.
Dasha elbowed Elena gently, prompting her into the act. "Yeah, yeah… can't girls go to the shop alone after school?" Elena added, her voice steadier now, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "We should've gone to the place we went this Sunday…"
The saleswoman swiped the card into her terminal, her expression neutral at first. Then her eyes widened imperceptibly. The screen displayed a balance so astronomical it bordered on the absurd—millions of rubles, the kind of figure reserved for oligarchs and old money dynasties. Extreme wealth, the sort that could fund private jets or summer homes on the Black Sea.
She glanced up sharply. "Why do you have this card? Whose is it, exactly?"
"You can see the details," Dasha replied coolly, producing a folded paper from her other pocket—a printed statement, crisp and official, bearing the cardholder's information.
Kira's eyes flicked to it with feigned surprise. "Oh my god, I can't believe you're still carrying that paper!"
"Yeah," Dasha said with a casual shrug. "There are some people out there who don't believe a girl my age can be that rich."
The name on the document was not Dasha's—It was Elara, paired with a phone number. The saleswoman dialed it, her movements deliberate. The line connected. At that exact moment, Dasha's phone rang. She picked it up casually and answered "Now do you believe it's mine?"
The saleswoman's face transformed. Color rose in her cheeks. "I'm so sorry," she stammered, handing back the card and papers with reverent haste. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. Anything you need." She called over a younger assistant from the back room, gesturing discreetly. "Show them the collections—the private ones."
"No thanks," Dasha said with a gracious wave. "We are old enough to select whatever we want. Come on, girls. Let's explore." She linked arms with her friends again, steering them deeper into the racks with the effortless grace of someone who belonged there.
As they turned a corner, the crowd thinning around them, Elena's whisper escaped like steam from a pressure valve. "Is this really your money? The paper has a different name…"
"My aunt," Dasha cut in softly, her eyes darting to ensure no one lingered nearby. The words carried the weight of confession, but her tone remained steady, almost breezy.
"What?" Elena's shock rippled through her like a chill wind off the Moskva River. Her steps faltered. "Are you going to spend her money?"
"Relax," Dasha replied, scanning the aisles with practiced nonchalance. "No, we're not. This is the money my aunt collected for her marriage. In other words, her life savings. But we're not touching a single ruble of it for real."
"Then why did you bring it? How did you even get it?" Elena's voice trembled with fury and confusion, her braid slipping over her shoulder as she leaned closer.
"I stole it," Dasha admitted, the word dropping like a pebble into still water. No remorse clouded her features—only the spark of calculated daring. She pointed ahead to the row of elegant changing rooms, their doors paneled in dark wood with frosted glass accents. "That's where we're going to execute the real plan. Grab 2 dresses, one which you like, the other one size larger."
Elena nodded slowly, the pieces clicking into place with a mix of dread and reluctant thrill. Her stomach twisted, but the pull of the moment—the promise of new dresses, the distant echo of Egor Kreed's music floating from the atrium speakers—held her in place. Friendship, after all, was a current stronger than caution.
The three dispersed among the racks like scouts in enemy territory, fingers trailing over fabrics that felt like liquid luxury.
Elena selected a flowing crimson dress with delicate lace sleeves, its tag reading 18,700 rubles; Kira chose a sleek black number with subtle silver threading, 22,400; Dasha opted for a sapphire-blue ensemble that shimmered like twilight on the Baltic. To the casual observer—and the security cameras tracking their path from a discreet angle—it appeared each carried only one garment draped carefully over her arm.
In truth, they had chosen sizes larger than needed, slipping a second identical dress beneath the first while the assistant's back was turned for a fleeting moment. The deception was seamless.
They converged at the changing rooms, hearts synchronized in a rhythm of anticipation and nerves. The saleswoman, now hovering near the counter, gestured subtly to her assistant and the overhead CCTV feeds. "Keep an eye," her lips mouthed. But the cameras monitored only the approach paths and main floor—not the private sanctum of the fitting stalls themselves.
Elena noticed her schoolbag hung on the shoulder. Dasha gestured to her and closed the door behind her in the changing room. She quickly handed it to the saleswoman. "Take care of it while I change my clothes." The woman nodded. It would serve its purpose later.
Inside the spacious changing room—three mirrored doors branching off a softly lit vestibule—they moved with the precision of performers in a heist film. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the mall's hum into a distant heartbeat. They peeled off their oversized dresses with practiced haste: blouses unbuttoned in fluid motions, skirts pooled at their feet like discarded cocoons.
One by one, they layered the dresses—first the inner one, then the outer, choosing the oversized fit so the fabric draped loosely, concealing the double thickness without a single telltale bulge. The silk and chiffon whispered against their skin, cool and luxurious, a far cry from the starched cotton of their uniforms.
Elena's hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the crimson layers, the hidden dress pressing like a secret against her ribs.
Kira smoothed the black fabric, catching her reflection and offering a thumbs-up to her reflection on mirror.
Dasha's sapphire creation transformed her into something regal, her ponytail swinging as she turned.
They emerged one by one, stepping into the three-way mirror alcove with the poise of runway models. The assistant hovered just outside the vestibule, her eyes flicking over them with renewed respect after the card incident. "How do they feel?" she asked politely.
Elena studied her reflection—the crimson dress hugging her frame with unexpected elegance, the lace sleeves framing her wrists like delicate vines. For a moment, the thrill overrode the guilt; she imagined Egor Kreed's gaze landing on her, a smile breaking across his famous face. "It's… nice," she said aloud, forcing enthusiasm into her tone.
Kira tugged at her black hem, mirroring the complaint. "Yeah, the fit's off. Too restrictive for dancing at the event."
Dasha nodded sagely. "Mine pinches a bit at the waist. We'll try again."
"What are you talking about? I liked mine!" Elena pressed.
"It looks horrible on you!" Kira cut her off. "Yeah, that's disgusting!" Added Dasha.
"No way, I really like it… I'm gonna ask someone. Can you please call the woman at the reception?" She said looking at the sales woman.
She nodded and left the room. 3 of them kept arguing about the dress. Dasha, tired of it, stepped away placing her hands on forehead. She stood exactly at the point before the CCTV. Kira pushed Elena inside, scolding her to change the dress.
For a while, both of them remained there. Elena inside, Kira standing in front of the door, Dasha stood at the same position and the bag lay in front of her, still visible in CCTV.
After a while Elena came out wearing her uniform. Kira quickly took the dress from Elena and moved it to place in her school bag. Meanwhile Dasha changed her position in front of the bag so the CCTV wouldn't catch the glimpse of Kira putting the dress in the bag.
"I still like it…" Elena whispered.
The woman entered and asked what happened.
"Oh nothing, we had a misunderstanding and it's now cleared!" Dasha clarified.
Elena handed that dress to the woman. "I don't look good in this… Don't you have anything better?"
"The last shop was way better!" Kira scoffed!
"Yeah, let's go there! This was such a waste of time being here!" Dasha added.
Three of them walked out of the shop, with Kira Dasha wearing the dresses they wanted underneath and Elena carrying it in her bag.
When they finally stepped out, they went to the washroom.
"Girl! I can't believe we did this!" Elena gasped in excitement.
"Now, this is called breaking rules!" Dasha scoffed.
"But why did you wear yours and asked me to keep it in the bag?" Elena asked, curiosity creeping over.