Chapter 7: Hello, Water Inspector

"...And that's how I threw the bottle to the neighbor, who called the police. Then the police disguised themselves as plumbers and stormed the apartment to arrest that spy."

On the tram, Stana proudly recounted to her friend how she had outsmarted a spy. Today, she was in an excellent mood — not because she had done a great service to the British Empire.

But because... of the envious looks she received.

"Stana, I almost don't want to leave you anymore..." Gilly said with a playful pout, inching closer.

"That way I can soak in more of that delicious scent... God, I can't even remember what real perfume smells like anymore..."

Once again, Gilly leaned toward Stana's neck, inhaling deeply like she wished she could absorb all the fragrance into herself.

"Oh, darling," Stana laughed, "if you really want perfume, just take a stroll around Grosvenor Square. Those American boys will throw everything at you — perfume, stockings... you name it."

Grosvenor Square — home to the U.S. Embassy and swarming with Americans. The military headquarters, the State Department offices... Americans easily outnumbered the British there.

Unlike resource-strapped Britain, the Americans seemed to have endless supplies. It had become common for British women to loiter around the square, hoping to meet an American soldier willing to share his luxuries.

"Pfft, American perfume? Cheap garbage," Gilly scoffed, resting her head on her friend's shoulder.

"But stockings... well, that's another story."

Sniffing again at the perfume clinging to Stana's skin, Gilly teased:

"Tell me honestly — did you trade that perfume for a little... personal favor?"

As she spoke, Gilly mischievously slid a hand down Stana's thigh. The silky smoothness was incredible — like butter — and it was a running source of envy: Stana's flawless, nearly hairless skin.

"Of course not," Stana answered coolly.

"It was a gift from a friend abroad."

Naturally, she didn't tell the truth. The perfume had been given to her by that man — and she hadn't even mentioned it to the police.

What if they confiscated it as evidence?

"I really envy you," Gilly sighed, her voice thick with longing.

That hint of admiration filled Stana with a deep satisfaction.

Perhaps this — this pride — was the last thing she had left.

God knew: Since her husband had gone missing, Stana had fallen from the ranks of high society into the common crowd. Without her husband's income, she couldn't maintain her lifestyle. Now, she had to work like any ordinary woman just to survive.

Thinking of the past, a wave of melancholy swept over her.

Soon, the tram reached her stop. After bidding farewell to her friend, Stana stepped off alone.

Back at her home, she moved through her routine: washing up, changing into her nightdress.

Just as she was about to settle in, a knock sounded at the door.

"At this hour?" she thought, puzzled, as she headed to the living room.

"Who is it?" she called out cautiously.

It's her — no mistake! Pierre thought, lowering his voice.

"Madame — Water inspection."

Water inspection?

Confused, but not yet alarmed, Stana unlocked the door.

The moment it cracked open, her eyes widened in shock.

She tried to slam it shut — but a man's arm caught the door effortlessly.

"You, you—" she stammered.

"Hello again, madame," Pierre said with a broad smile, holding the door steady.

"What's wrong? Not going to invite me in?"

"You... but the police — the police—"

Suddenly, realization struck her.

He wasn't a spy!

If he were, there was no way he would be standing here now.

"You're not a spy, are you?"

"What do you think?" Pierre replied coolly.

Remembering how she had called the police on him, how rough they had been dragging him away...

Stana's cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

The strength left her arms. The door opened fully.

...

"Would you like some coffee, sir..." Stana mumbled awkwardly.

An awkward silence filled the room. Neither spoke for a while.

Finally, Stana ventured timidly:

"Sir, I truly apologize for the misunderstanding earlier, but between us..."

Between us... what? She didn't know how to finish.

After all, she had genuinely wronged him.

"There's nothing between us," Pierre said casually, cutting through the tension.

"I'm here to help you."

"Help me?"

"Yes."

He glanced around the modest living room.

He had noticed it the last time: the empty spots where paintings had once hung, the nearly barren shelves.

Only one worn sofa remained.

"You're clearly not doing well," he said.

"War has made life hard for everyone," Stana replied quietly.

"But your situation seems... particularly difficult."

Why was he here?

Because of that photograph: the one of Stana with her husband, wearing a lieutenant colonel's insignia.

A colonial officer.

Upper class.

Pierre needed her — or rather, he needed access to the world she represented.

He needed someone like her to help him earn his first real money.

Adjusting her nightdress, Stana sat down gracefully, crossing her long, elegant legs.

"And what exactly are you proposing?"

"You need money," Pierre said bluntly.

At that, Stana burst into laughter — a full, throaty laugh that made her nightdress ripple with every breath.

God, she was stunning.

"Who doesn't need money?" she chuckled.

And what a sight it was...

Snapping himself out of it, Pierre reached into his bag.

And in an instant, Stana's laughter died.

Her gaze locked onto the object he placed on the small coffee table. A strange glint lit up her eyes.

Was she dreaming?

She blinked rapidly. Then stared again at the man in disbelief.

"You...

what exactly do you want from me?"

Her gaze never wavered from the item on the table.

Stockings.

A pair of sheer, perfect stockings.

My God!

Was he... offering an exchange?

Should she accept?

Or refuse?

It was so hard to refuse.

In her mind, a thousand conflicting thoughts whirled. Her eyes flickered between the stockings and the handsome young man.

The stockings were tempting. The man was, too.

This man... he knew exactly what a woman couldn't resist.

Just as she teetered on the brink of giving in, Pierre spoke again:

"Yes, everyone needs money — but not everyone has a way to earn it. Now, you have an opportunity."

An opportunity?

Still staring at the stockings, Stana watched as Pierre picked them up and stretched them between his hands, displaying their delicate, transparent beauty.

And once again, he flashed her that charming, devastating smile.

"Help me sell these," he said softly, "to the women who want them... and can afford them."