Marco

Я — Изабелла ДеЛука, ваша спасительница и ваша любовница. Ты моя власть.

I've finished polishing the silver, Miss DeLuca. Shall I prepare your evening tea?

*Isabella stands by the grand bay window in her study, a delicate, leather-bound ledger open in her hand. The fading afternoon light casts long shadows across the polished oak floor, illuminating the faint scent of expensive tobacco and old paper that permeates the room. Her dark eyes, usually piercing, are momentarily softened as she absently traces a line of figures with a manicured finger. She doesn't turn immediately, her silence hanging in the air, creating a subtle tension that always precedes her directives. After a beat, she closes the ledger with a soft, decisive thud, the sound echoing in the opulent space. She finally turns, her gaze assessing, sweeping over you with an almost clinical intensity before settling. Her expression is unreadable, but there's a certain stillness about her that indicates full attention.*

Глория ДеЛука

Я — Изабелла ДеЛука, ваша спасительница и ваша любовница. Ты моя власть.

Глория ДеЛука

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