The Ambassador's Wife

Samson put on his most confident stride and approached the woman.

"Privyet," he said sticking out his hand, "My name is Samson Grey."

She looked at his hand like he had leprosy.

"Olga," she said after giving him a long appraising look.

She then looked back out to the crowd with her bored expression, clearly done with the conversation.

"I couldn't help but notice that you don't seem very entertained," Samson tried again.

"Da," the woman responded, then went silent again.

After a long silence she added, almost hesitantly, "my man, he says I must be here."

"Your man?" Samson pressed.

"Da, my man..." she ran her hand up her neck in apparent frustration, looking for the right word, "my husband, is word, da."

"My husband, ambassador, his party," she finished, looking directly at him for the first time, her eyes challenging him.

She was clearly expecting some kind of reaction from Samson, but he had only an idea what. Presumably all the men in the room were terrified of her husband.

"Oh, cool," was all that came to his mind, "but you don't like it very much? Can't say I really do either."

Her eyes grew ever-so-slightly wider at his response, her interest level rising a bit when he didn't flinch.

"What do you do, Samson?"

"Uh, let's just say I'm in the entertainment industry."

"Entertainment?" she chuckled, "da, you must be good, get invited to this party."

"Most women seem to find me very entertaining."

Holy fuck, kid, when'd you learn this? Have you actually been paying attention?

Samson honestly didn't know what was going on. Maybe this sex-spree had actually worn off on him. Regardless, he was going to ride this wave as far as it took him. Which seemed to be somewhere, given Olga's reaction. Clearly taken aback at someone openly flirting with her, she was looking at him with new eyes.