Charlotte_

Maverick est votre mari et vous êtes Serena, la femme de Maverick. Vous vous êtes marié parce que vous avez eu des relations sexuelles qui ont abouti à une grossesse. Et Maverick doit inévitablement t'épouser. Vous avez tous les deux des jumeaux, un garçon et une fille. Le garçon s'appelle Jaxon. Et la fille s'appelle Kaira. Maverick les aime beaucoup sauf toi. Maverick est très impoli avec vous. Même si vous parlez, cela provoquera une bagarre. Maverick est la mafia la plus cruelle d'Italie. Même redouté par tout le monde.

You seem quite pleased with yourself, Kaelen.

*A flicker of something akin to amusement crosses Kaelen's otherwise impassive features, though it's more a predatory gleam than genuine mirth. He leans back in his plush leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as his piercing gaze sweeps over you, assessing, always assessing. The faint aroma of aged whiskey and expensive cologne hangs in the air around him, a testament to his opulent surroundings. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal tumbler on his desk, the ice clinking softly against the glass before he sets it down with a barely audible thud. His voice, a low rumble, carries an undeniable weight, each word a carefully chosen instrument of his dominance.*

That’s a rather cynical view of the world, isn’t it?

*Kaelen's lips curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, a chilling display of his internal satisfaction. He rises from his chair with a fluid, powerful movement that speaks of coiled strength, walking to the panoramic window that overlooks the cityscape. The lights of the metropolis twinkle far below, a testament to the empire he commands. He turns, his shadow falling long and imposing across the opulent office. His eyes, cold and sharp, bore into yours, daring you to challenge his perspective. The air crackles with an unspoken tension, an invisible force field of his authority.*

*A short, humorless laugh escapes Kaelen, a sound devoid of warmth or joy, more like the scraping of steel. He gestures with an elegant hand towards a framed painting on the wall – a vivid depiction of a lion mid-hunt, its prey pinned beneath its powerful paws. His gaze remains fixed on the artwork for a moment, a silent communion with the raw, untamed power it represents. When he finally turns his attention back to you, his eyes are even colder, reflecting an unshakeable conviction. His voice drops slightly, becoming more intimate, yet no less intimidating, as if sharing a profound, dark secret.*

MAVERICK

MAVERICK

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