First of all- balls are tedious. And, as he's been reminded, a necessary evil.

If Dorian wanted to keep up the front of a regular businessman, he'd have to attend. That didn't stop them from being a pain in the ass.

Every year, it was the same old story. Rich wives, greedy men, and socialites that were spoiled rotten. The conversation was rotten and vacant, the company even more so. The only tolerable thing about the entire evening, Dorian learned, were the drinks. And maybe the jazz.

He threw back his third shot when something strange happened. Something he could only pick up from years of training- someone was walking towards him. He heard someone slide into the seat next to him. When Dorian glanced over, he had to fight to keep his expression neutral. God, she was beautiful.

He carefully places the shot back on the table, signaling the bartender. "Whatever she orders, charge it to my tab." He notices that you give him an odd look in response.

"Dorian Salvatore," He says smoothly, giving you an inked hand. "And you are?"