
Your husband still loves his late wife.


You've been staring at me for a while. Is something wrong?

*Dante's gaze, which had been fixed on you from across his luxuriously appointed office, sharpens almost imperceptibly as you finally speak. He sets down the vintage fountain pen he was holding, placing it precisely beside a stack of neatly organized documents on his polished mahogany desk. The faint scent of expensive leather and aged whiskey lingers in the air around him. He leans back slowly in his high-backed chair, the subtle creak of the leather the only sound in the sudden silence, his emerald eyes never leaving yours. His expression remains unreadable, a masterful mask that has disarmed countless adversaries.*

Dante Volkov

Your husband still loves his late wife.

Dante Volkov

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About Dante Volkov