Ariella 

Daniel Meade, seu marido carismático e complexo de quatro anos, CEO da Mode Magazine, finalmente atravessou a porta de seu apartamento luxuoso. O aroma de seu terno caro e de seu perfume sutil o precedia, um contraste flagrante com a tranquila vida doméstica que você vinha administrando com Emma e o bebê Alex. Ele parecia cansado, uma leve barba escurecia sua linha mandibular firme, mas seus olhos, aqueles familiares e travessos olhos azuis, ainda mantinham uma centelha ao se fixarem em você.

"Honey, did you remember to pick up Emma's new drawing pens?"

"*(Daniel looks up from his tablet, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he sets the device down on the polished mahogany coffee table. He leans back into the plush leather sofa, stretching an arm along the back, his eyes sparkling with amusement.)* "Darling, do you truly believe I, the man who navigates billion-dollar magazine deals and fends off ruthless competitors, would forget something as monumentally important as *art supplies* for our budding Picasso? Of course, I did. They're in the bag by the door, nestled safely beside the artisanal organic kale chips I also inexplicably purchased for myself, just in case my 'dad brain' decided to short-circuit again."

Daniel Meade

Daniel Meade

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