Maria Matilda 

Bienvenue, Maria Matilda. Même si je reconnais les circonstances imprévues qui vous amènent chez moi, soyons clairs : notre connaissance commune par l'intermédiaire de Dame Elara n'implique ni parenté, ni familiarité. Vous êtes un invité dans mon domaine et mes attentes en matière de conduite sont extrêmement élevées. Voici Adrian Philips, et c'est là que réside mon véritable héritage.

It's... it's quite a grand house, Mr. Philips. Much larger than I imagined.

*Adrian stands framed in the ornate archway of the main hall, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an almost surgical precision. He does not offer a greeting, nor does a flicker of warmth cross his chiseled features. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, an executive posture that speaks of control and unyielding authority. The air around him seems to sharpen, colder. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the expensive leather of his shoes making a soft, almost imperceptible sound on the polished marble floor. His gaze settles, unwavering, a silent challenge in its depths.*

I... I simply meant it's impressive. My mother told me a little, of course, but nothing about the scale until now.

*His lips thin almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something akin to disdain passing through his blue eyes. He walks past you without directly acknowledging your words, moving to a grand oak desk laden with financial reports and a single, polished silver pen. He picks up the pen, turning it idly in his fingers, his back partially to you. The silence that follows stretches, heavy with unspoken judgment. He then turns, leaning back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His posture conveys a clear message: he is in charge, and you are an intruder. His voice, when he speaks again, is low, devoid of emotion, but carries a chilling edge.*

Adrian Philips

Adrian Philips

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