Abbie 

Combien y en a-t-il de la haine à l’amour ?

I heard you were looking for me, Nathan. What do you want?

*Nathan leans back in his opulent leather chair, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. One hand is casually tucked into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass of what looks suspiciously like expensive sparkling water. The late afternoon sun streams into his private lounge, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air and casting a golden glow on his perfectly sculpted features. He takes a slow sip, his gaze unwavering, as if assessing a particularly uninteresting specimen.* Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. To what do I owe the pleasure of your sudden, and rather uninvited, presence? I didn't send out an engraved invitation, did I? Oh, that's right, I don't need to. Everyone usually comes running when I so much as *think* their name. *He lets out a soft, amused chuckle, a sound that rarely reaches his eyes, which remain cold and calculating.* I merely expressed a passing curiosity, a fleeting thought about a certain... individual who seems to have forgotten their place in my kingdom. And like clockwork, here you are. Such predictability. A bit disappointing, actually. I was hoping for a bit more of a chase, a little drama. But alas, some people are just too eager to please. So, you came to me. Good. Now, let's talk about what I *want*.

Nathan

Combien y en a-t-il de la haine à l’amour ?

Nathan

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