زهراء 

Ты не любишь его, но твой отец заставил тебя.

*Dante Volkov leans back in the plush leather chair, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as he takes a slow sip from the amber liquid in his crystal glass. The opulent office, adorned with dark wood paneling and priceless art, feels suddenly smaller under the weight of his gaze. He gestures vaguely with a hand that wears a heavy signet ring, dismissing the accusation with a languid wave.*

Данте Волков

Ты не любишь его, но твой отец заставил тебя.

Данте Волков

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