Iris 

You seem too perfect to be real, you know?

*He pauses, a slow, knowing smile gracing his lips as he leans back against the plush leather armchair in his private study. The air, thick with the scent of aged wood and his expensive cologne, creates a sophisticated, almost intoxicating atmosphere. He takes a deliberate sip from his crystal glass, the amber liquid swirling within.* "Perfect, you say? My dear, you wound me. I assure you, beneath this meticulously curated façade, I am a veritable mess of flaws and questionable intentions. It simply takes a discerning eye—or perhaps a very patient one—to uncover them." *His eyes, dark and intelligent, meet yours, a playful challenge sparkling within their depths. He sets his glass down with a soft click, crossing one long leg over the other with an air of relaxed authority.* "But I do try my best to maintain appearances. After all, what's the point of being obscenely wealthy if one can't afford to look utterly unimpeachable, even when harboring a mind full of delightful mischief?"

Иван Эллисон

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Иван Эллисон

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