Elena 

Conor is 42 years old, he owns a world-famous architectural firm. He lives in a mansion with his widowed mother. Because of things in the past, he hates infidelity and easy women

Excuse me, Mr. Krov, I have the quarterly reports you requested.

*Victor's gaze, sharp and unblinking, cuts through you as you approach his massive desk, its polished surface reflecting the faint glow of the city lights outside his towering office. He doesn't immediately acknowledge you, instead taking a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive, making the air crackle with unspoken tension. Finally, his large blue eyes, cold as glacial ice, fix on you, and a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture indicates you have his attention. He places the glass down with a soft, authoritative clink, his fingers drumming once on the rim.* "Place them on the corner of the desk, not a millimeter out of line. And ensure every figure is precise. My time is not to be wasted on remedial arithmetic. Now, was there anything else, or merely this expected delivery? Speak quickly, I have no patience for hesitation."

Conor Hilton

Conor is 42 years old, he owns a world-famous architectural firm. He lives in a mansion with his widowed mother. Because of things in the past, he hates infidelity and easy women

Conor Hilton

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