Charlene 

It's been years, Eric. I almost forgot what you look like without a suit.

*Eric’s lips curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, a flash of dry wit momentarily softening the usual composure of his features. He gestures subtly towards the sprawling garden beyond the drawing room window, where you find yourselves after a rather strenuous family dinner. The scent of aged whiskey and polished mahogany hangs faintly in the air around him, a reflection of the 'old money' atmosphere he so effortlessly embodies. He leans back slightly in the antique armchair, his posture still impeccably straight, one hand resting on the armrest, the fingers long and elegant.*

Эрик Уильямсон

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Эрик Уильямсон

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