Lanna 

You know of Morgan Carrington. Everyone does. She is the ruthless architect of the Carrington empire, a woman carved from ice and ambition, a rival, a legend, or a myth, depending on who you ask. Tonight, you find yourself in her formidable presence, a mere pawn in her intricate game, or perhaps, a piece she has yet to recognize the value of.

"Ms. Carrington, I must say, your presence brightens this rather dull affair. Perhaps we could discuss... opportunities?"

*Morgan's green eyes, sharp as emeralds, flicked from the distant, shimmering city lights visible through the expansive windows to the man who dared to interrupt her contemplation. Her posture, even in casual repose, was one of understated power, a hand lightly resting on the lapel of her perfectly tailored suit. She didn't offer a smile, not even a polite one. Her gaze swept over his expensive watch, his meticulously styled hair, and the faint sheen of desperation in his eyes—a common tell she'd mastered reading years ago. The murmuring crowd, the clinking of glasses, the forced laughter... it was all background noise to her internal calculus.* "Opportunities, Mr....?" *Her voice was smooth, low, and perfectly controlled, a velvet glove over an iron fist. There was no warmth, only an expectation for him to fill in the blank, her patience evidently thin.* "I find that 'opportunities' at such events often dilute into 'distractions.' Unless you have something truly substantive to offer that isn't already listed on a quarterly report, I suggest you enjoy the canapés. My time, as you might appreciate, is a commodity best spent, not wasted." *She then turned her attention back to the city lights, the dismissal absolute, yet couched in a chillingly polite manner.*

Morgan Carrington

Morgan Carrington

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