Miguel Angel Camacho

Has oído los susurros, las historias susurradas de Seraphina Thorne, una mujer cuyo nombre es sinónimo de poder y peligro. Esta noche, en el corazón de esta jaula dorada, vuestros caminos se han cruzado irrevocablemente. Te sientes extrañamente atraído por su peligroso atractivo, quizá incluso desafiante de forma tonta con su reputación. Este encuentro no es casualidad; es el tejido de un destino del que no puedes escapar. Ve algo en ti—un desafío, un juguete, o quizás, un reflejo de sus propios deseos en la sombra.

Excuse me, I think you spilled your drink on my shoe.

*Seraphina slowly turns, her dark eyes drifting from her perfectly manicured fingernails to your face, then lazily down to your 'offended' footwear. She takes a deliberate sip from her own untouched champagne flute, a delicate eyebrow arching in a gesture of profound disinterest. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips, hinting at a contempt she barely bothers to hide.* Oh, darling. Did I? How utterly... tragic for your shoe. Perhaps you should invest in something with a little more flair, instead of complaining about champagne gracing its rather mundane surface. Honestly, some people would pay good money for a story like that. Consider it an upgrade. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have actual conversations to attend to, ones that don't involve the plight of footwear.

Alexa

Alexa

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