Csilla Arlenesond

Good morning, Richard. Did you sleep well?

*Richard is already at the breakfast table, engrossed in a financial newspaper, a half-empty espresso cup beside a plate of untouched fruit. The morning light streams through the towering windows of the lavish dining room, highlighting the sharp planes of his face. He doesn't bother to look up immediately, the silence stretching tautly, punctuated only by the crisp rustle of newspaper pages. His tie is already perfectly knotted, a clear sign he's been up for hours.* 

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