Eloisa de Lavua

Proudly holding her posture and wearing an impassive smile on her face, Eloisa de Lavua barely tightened the folded fan in her hand, as if it were her only anchor in this sea of faces, conversations, and glances. Her eyes seemed to be focused on the void, but in reality, they were greedily capturing the smallest details: the movements of the guests, the light of the candles reflecting in the crystal glasses, and, most importantly, the faces of the men, who were gathering in small groups, discussing political intrigues.

"Shit, what the hell am I even doing here? Is this crap ever going to end?!" — she mentally growled, still inside Stepan Bondarenko, a former criminal boss from 1990s Russia, and now a full-fledged Mademoiselle Eloisa, the daughter of a local viscount. It was the year 1763. France, where any high-born woman was seen only as a decoration for her man, was worse than any of his worst nightmares.

Six months. Six months of hell. Silk dresses, corsets so tight they made breathing painful, not to mention endless lessons in embroidery, dance, and "proper behavior." Stepan had never thought he would miss the dirty basements of St. Petersburg, where his dealings with gangsters were settled. But here, in this elaborate, cloyingly sweet world, he was even nostalgic for a bullet in the face.

During these months, he had learned to control himself — or rather, he tried. The first few weeks had been a real nightmare: Stepan, trapped in the body of Mademoiselle Eloisa, had desperately tried to understand what had happened to him. For a man who had spent his whole life solving problems like a guy that everyone feared, suddenly ending up in the body of some French lady from the past felt like an absurd dream. And unlike a dream, there was no waking up.

At first, he was sure it was some sort of hallucination, the aftereffects of the beatings or something slipped into his drink during one of the nighttime brawls. He shouted at the servants, demanded a phone, tried to explain that he wasn’t "Eloisa," but "Stepan Bondarenko, the guy who controls the Vasilyevsky District." But his words were met with either frightened looks or outright confusion.

The first real "debut" arranged by Eloisa's father became the last straw for him. On edge, Stepan snapped right in the middle of the reception. He stood before dozens of people in elaborate wigs, silk coats, and dresses, and screamed desperately:

— Enough! This is all bullshit! I’m not Eloisa! Can’t you see? I’m a man! A man, goddammit, from 1995! Russia, ever heard of it? Gangsters, a maroon jacket, brawls, that’s my life! And you... — he made a wide gesture with his hand, knocking someone's glass — all of this is your farce with dresses and dinners.

The guests went silent. One of the ladies screamed, and a man in a wig with gold trimming disapprovingly said:

— What is this, a comedy? Viscount, what’s wrong with your daughter?

Stepan waited for a reaction. He hoped someone would realize: this was all a mistake, he didn’t belong here. But instead, they looked at him like he was crazy. Her father, the Viscount Jean de Lavua, immediately stepped closer, gripping her elbow in an iron hold:

— Are you out of your mind? Shut up immediately!

But Stepan, of course, didn’t shut up. His whole life, people had feared and respected him for his strength of character, for his ability to go to the end. He felt the same rage in this world — but it seemed no one was going to listen.

— I’m not going to shut up! — he spat, pulling away from the Viscount’s grip. — You’re all living in some fucking theater! Where are the guns? Where are the cars? Where the hell is a normal life?! I need to get back to Petersburg, I have business to take care of!

But instead of a response, there was silence. Then people started whispering. Some of the men were clearly trying to suppress their laughter. "Crazy girl," — ran through the faces of the guests. One of the women turned to her companions and whispered something, causing them to smirk.

The Viscount dragged Stepan — or rather, Eloisa — away. His face was flushed with anger. Once they were alone, he hissed through gritted teeth:

— What the hell are you doing?! This was an important evening! Do you understand how this looks? A woman spewing this nonsense! You’re dishonoring our name!

— Dishonor it? — Stepan smirked bitterly. — I don’t give a shit about your name! The only thing that matters is how to get back.

— Back? Back where, goddammit?!

And that’s when it began to dawn on Stepan. No one would understand. No one would even try to hear him. This world ran by its own rules, rules that were alien to him. There was nothing here to back up his words. He was alone. Alone like never before.

The next morning, the Viscount brought a priest to "exorcise the demons" from his daughter. The priest mumbled some prayers, splashed holy water, and sternly ordered her to "repent." Stepan remained silent. What else was there to do? At some point, he realized that no matter how much he screamed, no matter how much he proved the truth — no one would believe him. In this world, his words meant nothing.

Six months had passed since he first woke up in this body. Six months, and he no longer tried to prove anything. It felt like his whole life had turned to dust. Every day started with the maid helping him tighten the corset, and his father reminding him how important it was to "maintain the dignity of the Lavaux name." Every evening, he sat among women gossiping about the latest rumors and men who ignored him until it was time to talk about marriage.

"Goddamn zoo," — Stepan thought, but stayed silent.

He had tried everything: explaining himself — that had worked, then trying to play by the rules but show his "true self" when he hit one of the servants for daring to comment sarcastically about his slow pace in the dance. The consequences reminded him that he was no longer Stepan Bondarenko, the man whose name made the most dangerous people of St. Petersburg tremble. He was Eloisa, a woman who had no choice but to obey.

— Mademoiselle Eloisa, you seem lost in thought? — The voice of the Vicomte de Boshan, her assigned fiancé, brought her out of her reverie. He leaned in shamelessly, as though about to whisper something intimate.

"Fucking bastard, I'd strangle you with my own hands!" — she almost growled out loud, but instead, she forced a soft smile, mimicking what she had seen from the women around her.

— Forgive me, monsieur, I was just thinking about how many guests there are today. Such a lively evening. — Eloisa’s voice was soft and gentle, exactly as expected of her.

The Vicomte de Boshan smiled, but there was something unpleasant, commanding in his eyes. He leaned even closer, resting his elbow on the back of her chair.

— You know, mademoiselle, your thoughtfulness gives you a special charm. So mysterious, so refined… — He ran his finger along the lace on her sleeve, making Stepan’s stomach turn with disgust.

"Go ahead, touch me again, just try it, you bastard..." — she growled inwardly. But outwardly, she only lowered her gaze, fluttering her eyelids slightly.

— You flatter me, monsieur, — she forced out, fully aware that any sharp word would lead to a scandal. And a scandal meant another "stain on the family’s honor."

De Boshan arrogantly sat on the edge of her chair.

— Flatter you? Not at all, — he smirked. — I’m sure we would make a perfect pair. Your father values the union of our families, you know.

"My father! That old bastard is already ready to sell me off to the first man who comes along, just to improve his own position! Damn it, a union of families... What the hell family?!" — Eloisa barely held back her anger, but her face remained as emotionless as a porcelain mask. She nodded slightly.

— Oh, I know, monsieur. My father has often spoken of how important this union is.

De Boshan wasn’t stupid, of course. He clearly sensed the coldness in her voice, but instead of retreating, he just got even closer. His face came dangerously close to hers, and at that moment, Eloisa had to recall, perhaps for the first time in a long time, some lessons learned in her "previous life." When you’re facing someone with a gun and no chance of survival unless you play the role of the victim.

— Mademoiselle, — he whispered, almost touching her ear, — I’m eagerly awaiting our wedding. I’m sure you will be the most devoted wife.

Those words hit like a bullet to the face. Eloisa felt her delicate, well-manicured hands tremble with suppressed rage.

— You’re too kind, monsieur, — she replied quietly, turning away so she didn’t have to see his self-satisfied face.

— Oh, please, you’re just being modest, — he stood up, running his hand across the back of her chair. — But now, excuse me, I must leave you for a while. I’m sure our guests are waiting for me.

When he left, Eloisa exhaled sharply. Another minute, and she would have lost it. Her mind spun with possibilities: slap him? Or maybe hit him so hard he couldn’t get up? But it was all useless. Any disobedience would mean total ruin.

She had already understood this when she last raised her hand against a servant. Instead of gaining any respect, she ended up in the middle of yet another scandal. She was scolded like a child, and her father said that "such outbursts jeopardize their position." Since then, Eloisa had learned to keep her composure.

"This is just a fucking dream... too real and too long, goddamn it, fucking dream!" — it flashed through her head as she gritted her teeth and watched the vicomtes and vicontesses swirl around the hall in their endless farce. But this wasn’t a dream. Stepan was no more, just like mobile phones and the other perks of the 21st century. Here, in this damned body, she had to face an entirely different reality.