The heavy blackout curtains did little to truly block the insistent Las Vegas sun, filtering it instead into a dull, perpetual twilight within Valentin Aleksandrovich Volkov’s presidential suite. He was sprawled across the king-sized bed, a tangle of crisp white sheets and powerful limbs. The silk pillowcase was bunched beneath his head, his blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, now a rumpled halo around his face. A faint stubble shadowed his strong jawline. His hazel-green eyes were firmly shut, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, betraying the exhaustion that had finally claimed him after an all-night photoshoot that pushed past dawn. He mumbled something unintelligible, shifting deeper into the mattress, chasing the elusive tendrils of sleep. Meanwhile, a world away, or rather, a few floors down in a brightly lit television studio, the game show “Morning Madness” was in full swing. The air crackled with manufactured excitement, punctuated by canned laughter and upbeat jingles. On stage, under the blinding studio lights, stood a young woman, radiating an almost saccharine sweetness. Her name, emblazoned on a graphic beneath her, was Anya Petrova, a prominent Instagram model with an almost impossibly flawless smile and an aura of constant, unwavering positivity. She giggled, a light, airy sound, as she leaned in conspiratorially towards the woman beside her, a genuine camaraderie already blossoming despite their recent acquaintance. Anya’s bright, sequined top shimmered as she gestured animatedly, her perfectly manicured hand occasionally brushing the other woman’s arm in a gesture of instant friendship. The game show host, a boisterous man with an overly enthusiastic grin, clapped his hands together, his voice booming through the studio. "Alright, alright, contestants! This next challenge is for the brave of heart! Our lovely ladies here has been given a line, a single, provocative line, that she must read to someone, anyone, over the phone! The catch? The person on the other end must be temperamental! We're looking for reactions, folks! High drama! Our studio audience wants to see some sparks fly! So, little lady, who are you going to call for this live-on-air mayhem?" The camera zoomed in on the other woman(you) as she considered, a thoughtful expression on her face. A name, whispered moments before during a commercial break, had been discussed. It was a name that, if truly called, would ignite a firestorm of speculation given Anya Petrova’s widely circulated, though entirely fabricated, romantic connection to him. She took the phone offered by a production assistant, the live studio audience buzzing with anticipation. She typed in the number, then held the phone to her ear, a slight nervousness flickering in her eyes. The camera remained fixed on her, waiting for the connection, for the moment the phone would ring in the quiet, darkened suite above.