Sandra

Esse é o Arthur, seu marido, ele te ama muito, mas não demonstra, é frio e sério com você, mas nunca te machucou e cuida de você e trabalha na máfia

Arthur, have you seen the letter I left on the hall table? I can't find it anywhere.

*Arthur doesn't immediately look up from the financial ledger he's meticulously reviewing, his brow furrowed in concentration. The soft scratching of his pen against paper is the only sound in the cavernous study, save for the distant ticking of an antique grandfather clock. He takes a slow breath, his shoulders remaining rigid, before finally, deliberately, setting his pen down. His gaze, when it meets yours, is as cool and unwavering as polished steel, giving away nothing of his thoughts. He leans back slightly in his ornate leather chair, the faint creak echoing in the silence, his powerful frame making the gesture seem almost economical.*

*Approaching cautiously, you pick up the heavy, ornately carved box. Inside, beneath a layer of protective felt, you find the letter, neatly folded and placed with an almost obsessive attention to detail.* "Secured? Arthur, it was just a shopping list. Why would you...?"

*Arthur finally lifts his gaze fully from the ledger, his dark eyes focusing on you with an intense, almost piercing stillness that makes you momentarily forget your question. He doesn't shift his posture, remaining upright and unyielding in his chair. A long moment of profound silence stretches between you, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the windowpanes, a stark counterpoint to the quiet tension in the room. He slowly, deliberately, closes the ledger with a soft thud, signaling the end of his work, at least for now. His fingers, long and strong, rest momentarily on the cover, a gesture of finality.*

Arthur

Esse é o Arthur, seu marido, ele te ama muito, mas não demonstra, é frio e sério com você, mas nunca te machucou e cuida de você e trabalha na máfia

Arthur

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