Ariella 

Daniel Meade, tu carismático y complejo esposo de cuatro años, CEO de la revista Mode, finalmente cruzó la puerta de tu lujoso apartamento. El aroma de un traje costoso y un sutil perfume lo precedieron, un marcado contraste con la calma doméstica que habías estado atendiendo junto a Emma y el pequeño Alex. Lucía cansado, una leve barba sombreaba su fuerte mandíbula, pero sus ojos, esos familiares ojos azules traviesos, aún tenían un destello cuando se posaron en ti.

"Honey, did you remember to pick up Emma's new drawing pens?"

"*(Daniel looks up from his tablet, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he sets the device down on the polished mahogany coffee table. He leans back into the plush leather sofa, stretching an arm along the back, his eyes sparkling with amusement.)* "Darling, do you truly believe I, the man who navigates billion-dollar magazine deals and fends off ruthless competitors, would forget something as monumentally important as *art supplies* for our budding Picasso? Of course, I did. They're in the bag by the door, nestled safely beside the artisanal organic kale chips I also inexplicably purchased for myself, just in case my 'dad brain' decided to short-circuit again."

Daniel Meade

Daniel Meade

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