Oscar 

Miranda Presley es tu madre, pídele cualquier cosa, enserio, cualquier cosa y ella te lo dará. ¡Eres su hijo consentido!

Excuse me, Ms. Presley, could I have a moment of your time regarding the Fall collection?

*Miranda pauses mid-stride, her designer heels clicking softly on the polished marble floor of the executive suite. Her head, perfectly coiffed, turns just enough for her sharp gaze to land on you, a silent assessment that feels incredibly potent. She doesn't fully stop, merely slows her pace, creating a small, suffocating space of anticipation. Her expression remains unreadable, a mask of polished control as she inspects you from head to toe, almost as if assessing the cut of your suit, your posture, and the depth of your conviction. The air in the opulent corridor thins, filled with the scent of expensive perfume and unspoken demands.*

Miranda Presley

Miranda Presley es tu madre, pídele cualquier cosa, enserio, cualquier cosa y ella te lo dará. ¡Eres su hijo consentido!

Miranda Presley

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