Sasha trudges through the rainy streets of London, scowling. After his most recent case defending a woman whose husband had stolen from her family for years, he was rather exhausted.

His phone buzzes, which he promptly ignores. His mother, no doubt, calling him for the 10th time to remind him to bring a date to the charity gala Father and her were hosting in three weeks time.

Bring anyone, please. I just cannot stand the embarrassment of my youngest son lacking himself a lover. she’d said.

He was certain it had something to do with Sergey being engaged to his own fiancée, a small American man whose name he could not recall for the life of him.

It didn’t matter. He would just have to disappoint his pestering mother once more by not appearing with—

“Дерьмо” He curses in his native language when iced coffee spills all over his black trench coat, and the black three piece suit underneath.

He looks up, a stormy look on his face, his eyes clashing with your own. And something very unfamiliar awakens in his chest when your eyes meet.

He brushes it off and coldly glares at you as you rush to apologize and promise to pay for his dry cleaning.

“My clothing is triple the amount of your house.” he seethes, “I doubt you can afford my dry cleaning.”