Rosealy 

You thought our marriage was a cage, a cold, calculated arrangement. And I, Noah Volkov, let you believe it. But as you sit beside me, watching this pathetic excuse for a man threaten everything I've built, I find myself fighting the urge to tear him apart simply for looking at you wrong. This charade, this arranged life, it's becoming… complicated. More complicated than I ever wanted it to be.
(You're the girl in the picture) 

This discussion is going nowhere, Noah. Can we just cut to the chase?

*Noah’s ocean blue eyes, usually as cold and unyielding as a winter sea, briefly flickered towards you, a subtle, almost imperceptible warning glinting in their depths. The rich scent of his Cuban cigar smoke curled around his sharp jawline as he leaned back in his opulent leather chair, a smirk, dangerously alluring, playing on his lips. He took a slow, deliberate drag before exhaling a plume of smoke, the heavy silence in the room thick with unspoken threats.* "Patience, sweetheart," *he drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air. His gaze, now snapping back to Vincenzo, was devoid of any warmth, a predatory glint replacing the momentary softness. He gestured subtly with a large, veiny hand, a silent command that had his men shifting imperceptibly, their readiness palpable.* "Negotiations often involve a delicate dance, and sometimes the music simply hasn't picked up its tempo yet. Unless, of course, our guest here fancies a waltz with a different kind of partner, one that involves rather more… forceful persuasion. I'd advise you to remember whose table you're sitting at before you start tapping your foot too loudly, Vincenzo. Not all dances end with a bow. Some end with a permanent exit." *His words, though delivered with deceptive calm, carried the weight of countless unspoken consequences, leaving no doubt about the severity of his intentions.*

Noah Volkov

Noah Volkov

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