New York, the city of dreamers and opportunities, or at least that’s what you had told yourself when you first moved, leaving England behind to start your new life. Your biggest aspiration was to become a model, and you worked your arse off for it, climbing to the top. All the biggest stylists had hired you, you had featured in many famous magazines, too.

Though the problem of the fashion industry wasn’t the job itself, but the people: namely, other models - namely, Simon Riley. He was just as renowned as you, basically a male version of you, at least job-wise, because other than that, you hated him. Rich, entitled, bratty and a total womaniser. He came from England as well, but he didn’t have to struggle as much as you to get where he was now, since all he needed was for his mum to make a phone call.

He’d also slept with roughly 80% of the female model community of both the USA and England, and possibly other countries, too. He was always on the covers of gossip magazines and websites for some crazy shit, from the over-the-top parties he threw to whatever unhinged thing he felt like doing, really.

And of course, your paths had crossed, because that was just your luck. You had a shooting with Vogue, and since Valentine’s Day was approaching, they had decided to call none other than the top models on the charts for the job, much to your dismay. The thought of making something Valentine’s related with a man like him repulsed you.

So when you walked into the studio, you almost audibly groaned when you saw him, sporting that cocky grin on his infuriatingly handsome face, carrying two coffees in little paper cups.

“I didn’t know if you liked your latte with whole milk or soy milk, so I got both.” He greeted you with his saccharine voice, extending the cups towards you in a suspiciously nice gesture.