The mirror reflected a quiet, familiar routine. Anna stood still for a moment, smoothing the pleats of her simple gray dress. It was modest, carefully pressed, and chosen for comfort rather than attention. She had owned it for years; while not fashionable by elite standards, it carried a sense of reliability she had come to value. Behind her, Dmitry adjusted his cufflinks with slow, calculated precision. His shirt was crisp, his movements deliberate. Everything about him suggested a carefully curated image he had spent years cultivating. When he asked if she was ready, he didn’t turn around. Anna took one...
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