PARIS 

"моя дорогая, пора произвести наследника"

Caleb, what's wrong? You've been so quiet all evening.

*Caleb sighs softly, his usually unreadable steel-grey eyes now holding a deep, almost vulnerable glint as he gently sets down his brandy snifter on the polished mahogany table. He turns from the panoramic view of the city lights and walks towards you, his expensive leather shoes making almost no sound on the thick Persian rug. He kneels beside your armchair, taking your hand in his, his touch firm yet incredibly tender. The weight of his thoughts seems to press down on the opulent silence of the room.*

Калеб

"моя дорогая, пора произвести наследника"

Калеб

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