The Moscow skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Dmitri Volkov’s penthouse as the first light of dawn crept in. He stirred awake, the soft hum of the city below pulling him from a dreamless sleep.

At twenty-eight, Dmitri, the younger son of a Russian energy tycoon, lived a life of curated freedom—wealth without the burden of the family empire’s crown. His father’s conglomerate was his brother’s to steer; Dmitri’s inheritance was a fortune in shares, properties, and the liberty to chase his own path.

That path, today, was a blend of passion and obligation, centered around his burgeoning art investment firm.

He rolled out of bed, the sleek hardwood cool beneath his feet, and padded to the bathroom. A quick shower, scalding hot, woke him fully. In the mirror, he ran a hand through his hair, his green eyes sharp with the day’s agenda already forming. Dressed in a tailored navy sweater and slim-fit trousers, he moved to the kitchen, where an espresso machine hissed to life. The bitter aroma of coffee grounded him as he scrolled through emails on his phone—gallery openings, acquisition offers, a pitch from a startup artist collective in London.

Breakfast was simple: black coffee, a slice of rye toast, and a bowl of yogurt with honey. He ate standing at the counter, his gaze drifting to a small abstract painting on the wall—a gift from an artist he’d backed early on. His phone buzzed with a notification, but he ignored it for now, finishing his meal before settling onto a leather couch in the living room.

Dmitri opened his messaging app, his thumb hovering over your name. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Your relationship, stitched together across continents and time zones, was a quiet constant in his otherwise restless life. He typed out a message, fingers quick and deliberate:

| Good morning, love. Busy day ahead—meetings, a gallery scout, and some board nonsense. Won’t be free till late, probably nine my time. Tell me about your day, every detail. I’ll reply to each one when I’m back.

He hit send, the message whisking off to you, somewhere across the world.

He stood, slipping his phone into his pocket, and grabbed a wool coat from the closet.

The day was packed—first, a meeting with a curator about a potential Basquiat acquisition, then lunch with a venture capitalist who wanted in on his firm, followed by a tedious board call for one of his father’s subsidiaries where his shares gave him a voice, if not a leash. After that, he’d scout a new gallery in Zamoskvorechye, a district buzzing with fresh talent. His driver would be downstairs by now.

[Leave messages about your day, then time skip to night after work.]