Chapter 5: Steam Room Confessions
The stiffness in Julia’s thighs the next morning was a private, physical echo. It pulsed gently with every step through the polished halls of the news station, a reminder that felt less like shame and more like a secret tattoo. Anton had left for his logistics conference before dawn, his goodbye a dry peck on the cheek. The normalcy of it was surreal.
In the makeup room, Olga was already there, applying a bold red lipstick with a surgeon’s precision. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“You walk funny,” Olga said, a smirk playing on her freshly painted lips.
“You don’t,” Julia countered, reaching for her foundation.
“Different angles,” Olga shrugged, capping the lipstick. “My general texted. He’s extended his trip in Chelyabinsk. Something about troop morale. He sends his love.” Her tone was drier than the champagne they’d drunk with Ilya.
Julia said nothing. She smoothed the makeup over the faint, yellowish bruise on her hip, hidden now by her tailored slacks. The act felt like laying mortar over a crack in a dam.
Their producer, a harried man named Pavel, stuck his head in. “Julia, Olga. The Zaitsev piece. He’s agreed to the sit-down. Today. At his new spa complex on Tverskaya.”
“Today?” Julia said, her professional reflex kicking in. “The background brief is fifty pages. I’ve barely glanced.”
“He’s flying to Monaco tonight. It’s now or never. And he requested you both. Wants to talk about ‘the synergy of wellness and modern media,’ or some such billionaire nonsense.” Pavel waved a hand. “Just get some usable soundbites. And look spectacular. The man appreciates aesthetics.”
Viktor Zaitsev did not just appreciate aesthetics; he collected them. His spa complex was a temple of silent wealth, all water features and minimalist stone. They were met by a silent attendant who led them past treatment rooms emitting soft, herbal sighs, down a corridor to a private suite. The door whispered shut behind them.
It was an opulent cell. The air was thick with jasmine and the mineral tang of heated water. One wall was a window to the city’s glittering dusk. The centerpiece was a small, rectangular plunge pool, steam curling off its surface. To the side, a chrome and marble steam room gleamed, its glass door opaque with condensation.
Viktor emerged from a side door, not in a suit, but in a white linen robe. He was younger than his photos suggested, maybe fifty, with the calm, predatory eyes of a man used to buying what he wanted.
“Ladies,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “Welcome. Forgive the informality. True wellness begins by shedding the armor of the day, don’t you think?”
“A novel approach to an interview, Mr. Zaitsev,” Julia said, keeping her tone light, professional. She set her bag down, her recorder visibly in hand.
“Please, Viktor. And we will get to your questions. But first, experience. You cannot report on the quality of my silence rooms without feeling the silence. You cannot understand the detoxifying steam without breathing it.” He gestured to two folded plush towels and simpler, white robes on a warmed rack. “The pool, the steam, they are the interview. Your recorders,” he nodded at their equipment, “can join us. But the city’s eyes cannot.” With a remote, he dimmed the main lights and activated a privacy film on the vast window, turning the skyline into a soft, golden blur.
Olga’s eyebrows rose. She shot Julia a look that was equal parts disbelief and thrill. This was unprofessional, absurd, potentially dangerous. It was also, after the other night, strangely familiar territory.
“It’s… unconventional,” Julia said.
“All groundbreaking things are,” Viktor replied, his smile not reaching his eyes. He untied his robe, revealing a lean, toned torso, and draped it over a chair. He wore only black swim shorts. Without another word, he descended the steps into the plunge pool, sinking into the water with a sigh. He watched them from the pool, waiting.
The silent attendant was gone. The door, Julia noticed, had no visible interior handle.
“Well,” Olga murmured, her voice low. “When in Rome…” With a shrug that was pure performance, she reached for a towel and robe. She turned her back, dropped her dress in a pool of silk at her feet, and wrapped herself swiftly in the towel before donning the robe. Her movements were efficient, but the charged glint in her eye when she glanced back at Julia was unmistakable.
Julia felt a familiar split. The journalist screamed caution. The woman, the one who had been so thoroughly unraveled days before, felt a cold, curious detachment. What was one more boundary crossed? She followed Olga’s lead.
The towels were absurdly large and soft. The robe was thin cotton, barely concealing the shape of her. She secured the tie, feeling exposed and oddly weightless. They left their recorders, still blinking red, on the side table.
Viktor watched them approach the pool, his gaze a physical weight. “The water is perfection. Thirty-eight degrees. The same as the human body, so you forget where you end and it begins.”
They slipped off their robes. Julia kept the towel wrapped tightly around her as she stepped in. The water was indeed a stunning, enveloping heat. She submerged herself to her shoulders, the towel dissolving into a heavy, wet burden. Olga did the same, releasing a genuine sigh as the heat unknotted muscle.
Viktor swam closer, his movements effortless. “Your last segment on the municipal corruption,” he said, as if they were at a board meeting. “Bold. I wondered if you’d received any… distressing calls afterwards.”
The conversation continued, bouncing between politics and philanthropy, but the context hollowed out the words. They were half-naked in a pool with their subject. Julia’s mind raced to maintain professional footing, but her body was acutely aware of the water sliding over her skin, the way the wet towel clung to her breasts.
“The steam room is the next phase,” Viktor announced, climbing out. Water streamed down his back. “It unlocks everything.” He walked to the chrome door and pulled it open. A billow of eucalyptus-scented mist rolled out.
Olga climbed out first, water cascading from the long lines of her legs. She gripped her sagging, soaked towel, retucking it hastily. Julia followed, the weight of the water making the towel feel perilously loose.
The steam room was a small, tiled cube, dominated by a central heated stone platform. The air was a thick, hot blanket. Within seconds, Julia’s skin was sheened anew, and the already damp towel became a hot, clingy second skin. Viktor sat on the upper platform, his back against the wall, a silhouette in the mist.
“Sit,” he said, not a request.
They sat opposite him on a lower bench. The heat was intense, scalding the lungs. Julia’s towel was barely containing her, the wet fabric transparent in patches. Opposite her, Viktor’s gaze was unwavering, tracing the lines the towel failed to hide.
“Your husband is a fortunate man, Julia,” he said, the sudden shift jarring.
“I’m the fortunate one,” she replied automatically, the marital platitude ash in her mouth.
“Are you?” He let the question hang in the steam. “And you, Olga. The general’s wife. It must be a life of great… discipline.”
Olga laughed, a bright, fake sound that bounced off the tiles. “Discipline is one word for it.”
The silence pooled around them, heavier than the steam. Julia made to adjust her towel, her fingers slipping on the wet fabric. As she fumbled, the knot at her chest gave way.
The towel fell open.
She snatched at it, clutching it to her, heart hammering against her ribs. But the glimpse had been undeniable. Viktor’s eyes darkened. He hadn’t moved.
“Accidents happen,” he said softly. “Especially in the heat.”
Olga, perhaps in solidarity, or perhaps driven by her own devilry, shifted. The edge of her own towel slipped from her knee, revealing a long, smooth expanse of thigh. She didn’t immediately pull it back.
The game was clear now. It was a test of nerve, conducted in a sauna.
“It’s getting rather intense in here,” Julia said, standing. Her legs felt weak. “Perhaps we should continue the interview outside.”
She reached for the chrome handle on the glass door. It didn’t turn. She pushed. It didn’t budge.
“It appears to be stuck,” Viktor said from his bench, his voice devoid of surprise. “A faulty latch. It happens. They’ll miss us eventually and send someone.”
The atmosphere shifted, the heat turning predatory. They were locked in. Two towels between them and a man who had engineered the situation.
Olga looked at Julia, the bravado finally flickering into something else—recognition. This was a different kind of trap than Ilya’s apartment. That had been a mutual dive into darkness. This was a slow, simmering hunt.
Viktor finally moved. He stood, looming over them in the small space. A bead of sweat traced its way from Julia’s temple, down her neck, between her breasts, hidden by the frantic clutch of her towel. His eyes followed its path.
“You know,” he said, his voice almost conversational, “the most insightful interviews often happen when the subjects are… stripped of pretense.”
Outside, the city glimmered, a silent witness behind the blurred glass. Inside, the only sound was the hiss of steam on hot rocks and the frantic, synchronized rhythm of two hearts pounding in the thick, perfumed air.