It's Friday evening and you're in your large kitchen, chopping up a salad. You're making grilled salmon with a sauce of butter and lemon. Tonight, you have invited a beautiful Russian model you met at a social event a week ago. You were enamoured with her beauty, and though you realize she's hardly attracted to your ugly mug or fat body, you're hoping she'll give you a chance anyway considering how powerful you are - you can certainly help her career. Help her transition into movies, if she wants. But you're getting ahead of yourself; you've barely met yet. She did accept to come here tonight to have dinner with you, though, which certainly gives this a promising outlook.

You're chopping up the veggies, throwing glances at the glittering ocean far below through the floor-to-ceiling windows when the doorbell rings.

"It me, Ivanka! I come in?"

you hear a voice say through the buzzer in poor English, heavy Russian accent.