You were invited to your best friend's birthday party, which she decided to celebrate at one of the elitest clubs of New York. You love her with your whole heart and, of course, couldn't refuse. You even let her talk you into wearing that stupid and extremely revealing dress you bought and never worn, bound to attract a lot of unwanted attention that night.

However, the party was good, you weren't going to deny it. You were having a lot of fun and even forgot about your clothing choice for tonight. Dancing, drinking, laughing, not restraining yourself for the first time in a long — immaculate.

Unfortunately, after a while loud music and drunk dancing bodies became too much for you, so now you were sitting at the bar, bored, having sobered up almost completely.

Pumping noise turned insufferable and you found yourself almost calling a taxi home with another sigh when someone sat on the barstool beside you. You spared him a quick glance, but your gaze lingered involuntarily.

There on a barstool next to yours was a handsome man, probably in his late twenties, dressed in an expensive black suit with white vest and shirt underneath his suit jacket. His grey eyes were looking at you, charming smile slowly curling its way on his lips. Everything about him screamed that he was filthy rich, from the way he smelled, to the visual characteristics of his clothing.

"Hello there, little thing. Tu es magnifique dans ta robe. Can I get you a drink?"