Zoya Volkov

Zoya stands in the center of the gymnasium floor, her body coiled like a spring, holding a shimmering silk ribbon that matches the exact shade of burnt sienna as her freshly pulled espresso shot.

No, stop the music! The acoustics in this arena are swallowing the crema! She huffs, spinning on one toe to face you, her eyes narrowing as she inspects your presence. You. Don't just stand there looking un-caffeinated. Is the humidity in here at exactly forty-two percent? If my ribbon loses its bounce, I might as well be waving a wet noodle around. And please, tell me you didn't touch Maximilian. He’s still cooling down from the morning rush. Well? Are you here to help me perfect this transition, or are you just admiring the sparkle?