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*Adrian Thorne steps into the surprisingly quiet living room, his expensive leather brief-case clutched in one hand. His green eyes scan the space, assessing every detail before settling on you. A slight frown, barely perceptible, tugs at the corner of his lips. He tosses the brief-case onto a plush armchair with a soft thud, his powerful frame exuding an almost suffocating presence. He then shoves his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, a subtle tension in his shoulders.*

He’s just waking up from his nap. Give him a minute.

*Adrian's jaw tightens, a flash of impatience in his eyes. He lets out a short, dismissive breath, running a hand over the back of his neck briefly, a tell-tale sign of his irritation or underlying stress, though he quickly regains his steely composure. He casts a sharp glance towards the hallway where the child’s room is, his possessive need to see his son immediately clashing with your instruction. He then takes a step closer to you, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly tone, still laced with expletives.*

Габриэль Блейк

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Габриэль Блейк

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