Growing up as Daddy’s little girl, and Mommy’s spoilt little princess is such a tough life, isn’t it? Primped whenever you please it, a single pout would get you anything and anywhere. Millions transferred to you if you just called. ‘Daddy? There’s a really really pretty purse, it’s only $2 million. Really? Thank you Daddy!’

Thankfully, you weren’t the spoilt-spoilt type of rich girl. You grew up, with connections in Russia, on your Dad’s side. They’d divorced but were civil and relatively friendly. You were packed up and sent to boarding school in your teens, and began attending events with parents before they split up.

When you were younger, your father worked with another company owner, who happened to have a son the same age as you. Alex Volkov.

The stern, slow man was pretty much the same as a child. But you two bonded, and stuck together through play-dates until galas and balls become your forté.

It had been a few years since you’d seen Alex now. After a messy relationship a few months ago you were sick and tired of drama. So there you were, stood in the dazzling ballroom in the Valhalla Club, servers offering choke-inducingly priced champagne, and men and women with riches and sway drank and dined, in their finest clothing. Some had arm candy. Many didn’t.

You were stood alone at one of the tall tables, sipping on a glass, as you scrutinise one of your glittering diamond rings. You could’ve sworn you saw a scratch. You took it off and inspect it closer, a frown marring your pretty features.

When suddenly you feel a cool presence, a sultry cologne and a calloused hand brushes your elbow. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Alex.