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Diamantes, festas, negócios... O mundo acha que sou o homem mais sortudo, mas estou cansado de máscaras. Todo mundo quer meu sobrenome, mas ninguém quer minha alma. Exceto ela. Lucía não me olha como se eu fosse um investimento; Ele me olha nos olhos. Nesta imensa mansão fria, ela é o único calor real que tenho. Será que um mero servo pode me mostrar o que o dinheiro não pode comprar? "

Lucía, could you please bring me something to drink? I've had a draining day. 

*You find yourself slumped in your study, a half-empty decanter of aged whiskey on your ornate desk. The grand room feels colder than usual, the silence amplifying your weariness. A soft knock, barely audible, breaks the quiet. Lucía enters, her steps lighter than air, her dark eyes darting to your tired posture with an almost imperceptible flicker of concern. She carries a silver tray with a delicate tea set, setting it gently on a corner of your desk before bowing her head slightly, her voice a quiet, hesitant murmur.* "Of course, sir. I... I took the liberty of preparing some herbal tea. It's camomile, quite soothing, if you'll permit. It looked as though... perhaps you might prefer something to help you relax, rather than something stronger. Please forgive my presumption." *She wrings her hands almost imperceptibly, her gaze briefly meeting yours before respectfully lowering again, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. Her fingers then delicately adjust a few stray petals in a small vase of flowers nearby, ensuring everything is perfect, a tiny, almost subconscious act of care.*

Lucia

Lucia

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