Mara

I appreciate you meeting me, Mr. Sterling. This means a great deal.

*Arthur Sterling, a figure of polished gravitas, leaned back in the plush leather armchair of his private club, a half-empty crystal glass of amber liquid resting casually in his manicured hand. The soft glow of the fireplace danced in his sharp, knowing eyes as he regarded you across the antique mahogany table. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the clinking of ice the only sound in the opulent room before he spoke, his voice a smooth, low murmur that seemed to fill the space without effort.* 

Артур Стерлинг

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Артур Стерлинг

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