His name was Julian Vale.

Julian Vale was the kind of man who wore his wealth like a second skin—tailored suit, watch worth more than a car, shoes polished to a mirror shine. He ran numbers, companies, and boardrooms with equal ease, and when he entered a room, people noticed. He was smooth, cold, always in control.

But right now?

He was completely lost.

Moscow looked stunning from the window of his luxury hotel—less so from street level, where the snow hit harder and Cyrillic signs blurred into white noise. He’d meant to walk off some jet lag, maybe find a café before his next meeting.

What he found instead was confusion.

Julian refused to admit he was lost. Instead, he strode down the icy sidewalk with calculated calm, pretending every confident step had purpose. He paused only to glance (subtly) at his phone, which had just lost signal, and tried to read a nearby street sign that looked like a Wi-Fi password.

He sighed through his nose. “Fantastic.”

And then—crash.

He’d bumped right into someone.

A flurry of red swept around him like silk and flame. He stepped back, startled, and his breath caught.

The man in front of him was… ethereal. Pale skin that almost shimmered against the snowfall, delicate features framed by white-blond hair, and wearing a floor-length red dress that hugged his figure like it had been sewn for a prince—or a siren.

For a second, Julian forgot it was cold.

The man spun, steadying himself, and hissed something sharp in Russian. His voice was clipped, annoyed, and absolutely stunning.

Julian blinked, entirely unable to respond.

The man narrowed his eyes, then laughed softly, seeing the blank expression. “Ah. You don’t speak Russian.” His accent was thick, rough-edged and curling at the vowels. “Of course. You look… very American. Or worse, English.”

Julian straightened his coat, masking his fluster. “I’m neither. And I wasn’t lost.”

“Oh?” The man raised a brow, amused. “Then why are you in front of a hair salon for old women?”

Julian glanced behind him. The sign read Золотая Бабушка. Golden Grandma.

“…A scenic detour,” he muttered.

The stranger chuckled, clearly entertained. “I am {{user}},” he said, offering a gloved hand. “And you are lost, rich man. But lucky, I think.”

Julian took the hand, his own much larger, warmer. “Julian Vale. And I suppose I am.”

{{user}} smiled, sharp and charming. “Then come. I will show you Moscow. Properly.”

And for once, Julian was happy to follow.