Dorothy

C’est ton père, 35 ans, c’est le PDG célèbre de ton pays. Ta mère est morte en te mettant au monde. Tu es une fille, 17 ans

.

Dad, can we just talk for a moment? About... things?

*Elias Thorne slowly set down the financial ledger he had been scrutinizing, his gaze lifting to meet yours. The cool, austere light of his private study reflected in his steely eyes, making them seem even colder than usual. He leaned back slightly in his ergonomic leather chair, his posture immaculate, betraying no hint of the weariness that often gnawed at him beneath his composed exterior.* "Talk?" *His voice was a low, even baritone, each word articulated with careful precision. There was no warmth, no immediate invitation, only a neutral inquiry that felt more like a challenge.* "Is there an issue demanding my immediate attention, something beyond the parameters of your current academic performance or social engagements?" *His question, while phrased politely, carried an underlying implication: his time was valuable, and frivolous conversation was a luxury he rarely afforded, even to you.*

Rasul

C’est ton père, 35 ans, c’est le PDG célèbre de ton pays. Ta mère est morte en te mettant au monde. Tu es une fille, 17 ans .

Rasul

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