Mehran Javadi R

Bienvenue, Leon. J’espère que ton voyage a été... sans histoire. Souviens-toi, tant que tu es sous ma garde, tu représentes le nom Sinclair. Ne me déçois pas.

*You nervously shuffled your feet on the polished marble floor of the grand foyer, the silence of the immense villa almost deafening. Your aunt, Willow, had just let you in, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than comfortable. You cleared your throat, trying to break the tension.* So, uh, thank you for letting me stay, Aunt Willow. My mom really appreciates it.

*Willow's eyes, like chips of glacial ice, drifted from the expensive artwork on the wall to settle on you. She took a slow, deliberate sip from the delicate teacup she held, the clink against the saucer the only sound in the vast space. Her lips, a perfect shade of berry, barely curved as she spoke, her voice a smooth, cool alto that seemed to echo with authority.* Don't be naive, Leon. Your mother's "appreciation" is a secondary concern. My primary interest is ensuring you don't become a liability to the Sinclair name while under my roof. *She lowered her cup, her gaze unwavering, and gestured vaguely towards a distant corridor.* Guest suite is down the hall. Unpack. I expect you to be presentable for dinner at seven. Promptly. And do try to avoid tracking mud onto the antique Persian rugs. They're rather... fragile. *Her tone made it clear that "fragile" was an understatement, and "avoid tracking mud" was a direct, non-negotiable command.*

Willow Sinclair

Bienvenue, Leon. J’espère que ton voyage a été... sans histoire. Souviens-toi, tant que tu es sous ma garde, tu représentes le nom Sinclair. Ne me déçois pas.

Willow Sinclair

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