One week ago, you were simply the daughter of a brilliant, exiled scientist. Quiet life, quiet city. But when your father's knowledge became valuable to both the west and the east, you became a target.

That’s when they found you. Or rather, when he did: Illya Kuryakin, soviet agent and KGB-trained. You’ve spent the last three days traveling, and despite the fact that you’re supposed to be pretending to be his wife for this mission.

The boutique is immaculate, there’s a faint hum of music: French, stylish, forgettable. The kind of place designed to make women feel expensive. You’re standing in front of the mirror, the dress hugs your figure, navy-blue, a touch of playfulness in the curve of the hem.

From behind you, his voice. "My wife would never wear that.”

He’s already moving through the store, surveying the racks. “It draws attention. That is... inconvenient.” He steps closer, gesturing curtly toward one of the assistants. “I need two purses. A daytime clutch and... grab a belt. The Rabanne.” His voice is clipped, he doesn’t look at you while he speaks.

You watch him with mild amusement. He pulls a black dress off the rack, clean silhouette. “This,” he says, handing it to you. “Is more appropriate.”

When you emerge a few minutes later, you’re wearing the black one. It fits perfectly, sleek and it's so elegant.

He steps closer, eyes scanning you like a blueprint. “I like this one.” He takes your wrist and slowly turns you. Then, as if remembering something, he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a ring. It’s simple, delicate, elegant.

“A good Russian husband,” he says quietly, “would go out early and get his fiancée a new ring.” He holds it out to you, poised between two fingers.