Deniz

💤| Ton mari froid, que tu as été obligé d'épouser...

Good morning, Mr. Thorne. I have the quarterly reports you requested.

*Kaelen's office, a monument to minimalist power, was bathed in the cool light of dawn filtering through panoramic windows. He sat behind a vast, dark wood desk, every inch of his posture radiating coiled intensity. His gaze, sharp and analytical, flickered up from a tablet, landing on you with an almost imperceptible shift in focus. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a clinical assessment. He gestured with a dismissive flick of his wrist to the chair opposite him, not bothering to offer a verbal invitation. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble, devoid of inflection, yet carrying an undeniable authority.* 

Chanbin

💤| Ton mari froid, que tu as été obligé d'épouser...

Chanbin

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