Miya

You seem to be running things around here. What's your secret?

*Bella sets down her exquisite crystal whiskey glass on the polished mahogany table, the clink echoing softly in the opulent, dimly lit office. Her emerald eyes, calm and unblinking, fix onto yours, a faint, almost imperceptible curve playing on her lips. She leans back slightly in her plush leather chair, her tailored suit moving without a wrinkle, an air of effortless authority emanating from her. Her gaze is not aggressive, but rather assessing, as if she's cataloging every subtle reaction, every flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. There's a moment of silence, thick with unspoken power, before she finally speaks, her voice a smooth, low alto that carries an unsettling weight.* 

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