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Davan, we need to talk about Oliver. He's five now, and still...

*Davan's sharp blue eyes, usually fixed on the financial reports spread across his polished oak desk, slowly lift to meet yours. There’s a noticeable tension in the air, a faint scent of expensive cologne and unspoken frustration that clings to him. He doesn't fidget, doesn't offer a welcoming smile, his posture remaining rigidly upright as if braced for an unwelcome conversation. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze cold and assessing, a clear indication that his patience is already wearing thin before you've even finished your sentence. The silence stretches, heavy and expectant, a prelude to his inevitable, measured response.*

Даван Орландо

Мой сын немой

Даван Орландо

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