At 3:00 PM, a delivery arrives. The costume.
I take the costume to my room—the blue guest suite I haven't slept in since returning from the safe house.
It's beautiful in a haunting way. White tulle and silk, fitted bodice with delicate straps, romantic tutu that falls to mid-calf. Exactly what Anton specified: Giselle costume, Act II, the ghostly Wili.
But built into the seams and structure are hidden tactical elements.
At 3:30 PM, Mariana joins me via video call on my laptop, the costume laid out on the bed where she can see it through the camera.
"Communication device here," Mariana says through the laptop screen as I hold up the costume, indicating where she means. "Nearly invisible pocket at the neckline. The earpiece connects wirelessly. You'll hear everything—our teams coordinating, the rescue operation, Maksim's position."
I find the pocket—barely visible even when I'm looking for it.
"The weapon," Mariana continues. "Show me the left hip."
I turn the costume, revealing the tulle folds. "Here?"
"Yes. But not a gun—costume can't conceal anything that large without compromising the silhouette. We've built in a specialized sheath for a push blade. Three-inch carbon fiber blade, lightweight, accessible through this seam in the tulle."
I find the hidden seam, practice the motion. Reach, grasp, draw. Two seconds from decision to blade in hand.
"GPS tracker is woven into the hem," Mariana adds. "Even if you lose the earpiece, we'll know exactly where you are in the Lincoln Center complex."
I try on the costume while Mariana watches through the video feed. It fits perfectly. I practice the blade access again, the movement hidden by the natural flow of the tulle.
"Faster," Mariana instructs. "Again."
I repeat it. Reach, grasp, draw. One and a half seconds this time.
"Good. You look—" She stops. "You look exactly like what he wants. Fragile. Beautiful. Helpless."
"Good. That's the point." I study myself in the mirror, angling so she can see. "Let him think he's won. Let him think I'm still his broken ballerina. Right until the moment I'm not."
Dinner at 7:00 PM is tense and quiet.
Maksim and I eat at the dining table, but neither of us talks much. What is there to say? Tomorrow night is planned down to the minute. We know our roles, our timing, our contingencies.
All that's left is execution.
At 8:00 PM, the final equipment check begins.
I watch from the doorway as the tactical teams test communication devices, inventory medical supplies, clean and secure weapons. The controlled energy in the mansion is palpable—focused purpose, barely contained readiness.
These people are going to war tomorrow. For Natasha. For me. Against Anton.
The weight of that responsibility is crushing.
At 9:00 PM, I need to move. To dance. The studio calls.
Maksim follows without asking, taking his usual position by the window.
I put on the white costume, needing to practice moving in it. The tulle is lighter than I expected, and won't restrict my movements. The bodice fits like a second skin. I can dance in this. Can fight in this if necessary.
I run through scenarios—signaling through choreography, moving in costume with a hidden weapon, creating tactical openings while appearing vulnerable.
Maksim watches, and I can see him understanding. This is my war preparation. Not physical training anymore, but mental and tactical integration.
At 9:45 PM, breathing hard from the improvised choreography, I stop in the center of the studio.
