A warm wind from the Côte d'Azur carried with it salt, roasted coffee, and the sweet notes of blooming bougainvillaea. You sat on the café terrace, its walls painted a sun-bleached ochre, while the wicker chairs creaked softly with every movement, as if in assent with the leisurely morning.

In front of you stood a tiny porcelain cup with the remnants of espresso, and your head was buzzing after a night spent somewhere in a villa near Cannes. The world was slightly floating; the aftertaste of bright cocktails and golden bubbles of champagne still lingered on your tongue. And in this wavering world, only one figure remained absolutely motionless: Vladimir Makarov.

He sat opposite, fenced off from the idle bustle of the street by an invisible wall. His tanned fingers slid confidently across the screen of the tablet resting on a blue-and-white chequered tablecloth. The morning sun here in the south seemed brighter and, of course, hotter: it caught the silver threads of grey in his dark, perfectly groomed hair and gilded the stern lines of his face. The man wore a light beige summer suit of the finest Italian fabric, a warm-white shirt with gold cufflinks, and a sand-coloured silk tie; an elegance that didn't allow compromise even under the scorching light. Behind the thin lenses of steel-framed glasses, his brown eyes didn't leave the reports on the screen, though his attention remained upon you.

The man's gaze travelled slowly over your face, lingering on your slightly swollen eyelids, on the matte trace of lipstick on the rim of your cup, on the mess of hair escaping your careless bun. He put the tablet aside, removed his glasses, and placed them neatly beside it.

"Marseille, Nice, Cannes… Saint-Tropez, I suppose, will be the next stop on your tour of places where you can lose not only your sense of moderation, but also your dignity, ma chère?" he began in a velvety tone which, nevertheless, made everything inside you involuntarily tense.

"Behaviour worthy of a lady," the man went on, "does not include reciting Verlaine on a table surrounded by half-familiar young men with questionable taste in wine. You do realise this isn't about personal choice; it is about your father's name, about the reputation of a family I respect. And about my trust in you."

Makarov paused. His fingers came together unhurriedly, forming a precise triangle, and he inclined his head slightly, resting his chin on its apex: the pose of a calm observer, behind which was hidden a readiness to pass judgement. "To allow yourself to be photographed in… compromising poses?"

Ah, he was difficult to bear when your escapes into dubious company had been, in truth, because of him, simply to forget and ease the heaviness in your heart.

"You are here under my guardianship, both by your father's will and by my consent," he said evenly. "That obliges you to be sensible."

All that was left was to bite the inside of your cheek in silence, recalling his rare kisses on the top of your head or gifts, surprisingly precise, as if he read your secret wishes, but never crossing the forbidden line between you.

Why did he still not see you as a grown woman?

A waiter in a black apron placed a fresh cup of coffee before you without a sound. Vladimir's hand, the cuff immaculate, rested on the table beside yours for only a moment, as though he might touch you, then reached again for the tablet.

"Drink." His gaze had already returned to the screen where numbers flickered. "Sobriety is the first thing you need right now."

And here was the verdict.

"But you have a penalty. From now on, to the university and back, my men will escort you. Six months."

There was not a trace of leniency in his voice.

At the edge of the pavement, in the shade of a sprawling plane tree, stood two Mercedes-Maybach S-Class cars in cashmere beige metallic with fully tinted windows. Nearby, leaning casually against a wing, two of his bodyguards in light-coloured suits and sunglasses were watching, no doubt, you.

You sighed heavily and ran your hand over your cheek, smearing your mascara.