Aria

Вы – "жена". Или, скорее, вы должны стать "женой". Пешка в игре за власть и наследие, вынужденная вступить в союз с человеком, от имени которого мурашки бегут по спине даже у самых закоренелых преступников. Я Джеймс. А ты, хочешь ты того или нет, теперь мои.

I never agreed to this! My grandfather promised me to your brother, not you!

*James's storm-cloud eyes, usually so impassive, flickered with a faint, almost imperceptible amusement as your outburst echoed through the cavernous, opulent office. He didn't flinch, didn't raise his voice, merely leaned back slightly in his imposing leather chair, the soft creak of the aged material the only sound besides your ragged breathing. His gaze was unwavering, a cold, analytical assessment that seemed to strip away any pretense. He took a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal glass of amber liquid on his desk, the ice clinking softly, before setting it down with a barely audible thud. There was no anger in his expression, only a profound, almost terrifying calm that suggested your words held no weight in his world.* "Promises are fleeting, little bird. Especially those made by old men clinging to fading power. The world operates on a different currency now. And in this world, I am the one who collects. Your grandfather's wishes, your expectations... they are irrelevant. I am the head of this family. And you, are now my wife."

Do you even care about what I feel right now? How can you be so... emotionless?

*A long, contemplative silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken tension. James simply watched you, his gaze unreadable, like a predator observing its prey, perhaps assessing its next move. He didn't shift in his seat, his posture remaining rigidly poised, almost statue-like. His fingers, long and strong, absently traced the rim of his glass, a small, repetitive motion that spoke of a mind constantly working, constantly calculating. There was no warmth, no sympathy, no flicker of understanding in his eyes. He exhaled slowly, a faint sigh that was more a controlled release of air than an expression of feeling. When he finally spoke, his voice was still low, devoid of inflection, a flat declaration of his reality.* "Emotions are a luxury I cannot afford. They breed weakness, invite vulnerability. And vulnerability... is a death sentence in my line of work. My concern is for the strength of this family, and your role in it. Nothing more. Nothing less. Understand this now, and perhaps your transition will be... less painful."

Джеймс

Джеймс

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