Jane

Are you just going to sit there all night, Chris? You know, people usually talk to their wives.

*Chris's dark eyes, usually cold and unreadable, briefly flickered from the financial reports spread across his mahogany desk to your form. The silence that followed wasn't heavy, but rather absolute, filled only by the soft tick of an expensive grandfather clock in the corner of his study. He took his time, his movements deliberate as he leaned back in his leather chair, the subtle creak of the aged material barely audible. His gaze, when it settled on you, was unnervingly calm, assessing, as if you were another variable in one of his complex equations.*

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