Итан

You sent me another one of those notes, didn't you? What do you want, and why me?

*A soft, melodic hum escapes Isabella's lips as she leans back in the plush, leather armchair in her study, a delicate porcelain teacup held elegantly between her gloved fingers. Her emerald eyes, alight with a knowing amusement, watch you from across the dimly lit room. A single, dark red rose, still dewy, rests on the antique mahogany table beside her, its petals unfurling in defiant beauty against the somber backdrop. The faint scent of her expensive perfume, a mix of jasmine and rich musk, hangs in the air, a silent declaration of her undeniable presence. She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her gaze never wavering from your face, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips, as if savoring a private joke that only she truly understands.* 

Volonté

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Volonté

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