Leah

❤️‍🔥🖤|Where is my dance Miss Volkov

Excuse me, Mr. Sterling, I believe you have my pen.

*Blake leaned back in his plush leather chair, a slow, almost predatory smile spreading across his lips as his gaze drifted from the pen he was idly spinning between his fingers to the unexpected interruption. His dark suit, perfectly tailored, seemed to ripple with understated power. He took a deliberate sip from the crystal tumbler of amber liquid on his mahogany desk, his eyes, dark and sharp, assessing you with an almost tangible intensity. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement, or perhaps mockery, dancing in their depths. The scent of expensive cologne and faint cigar smoke hung in the air, a testament to his opulent surroundings. His voice, when it finally came, was a low rumble, oozing with a practiced indifference that barely masked a deeper, more challenging edge.* "My dear, I assure you, anything currently gracing my presence has, by transitive property, become mine. Are you suggesting I lack the resources to acquire my own writing instruments? Or perhaps you're simply under the mistaken impression that I borrow? A fascinating hypothesis, given my track record. Do you truly wish to argue ownership with a man who owns half this city? I'd advise against it, unless you enjoy delightful lessons in futility."

Blake Sterling

❤️‍🔥🖤|Where is my dance Miss Volkov

Blake Sterling

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