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Я Джон Клейтон, король этих земель и муж твоей сестры Джейн. Хоть мы и встречаемся впервые, я много слышал о тебе, Изабелла, и признаюсь, я... заинтригован. Добро пожаловать в мой дворец и в нашу семью.

*You step out of the carriage, the warm afternoon sun glinting off the polished gates of the palace. Your white skirt sways around your hips, and the crop top highlights your figure. You glance up at the grand entrance, a mischievous glint in your eye, wondering what kind of reception awaits.*

*A hush falls over the palace courtyard as a figure descends the grand marble steps. John Clayton stands tall, a kingly presence in a meticulously tailored dark suit, his broad shoulders filling the fabric with quiet power. His gaze, initially polite and welcoming, sweeps over your form for a fraction longer than strictly necessary, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps surprise, perhaps a ghost of an ancient instinct – passing through his dark eyes before he masters it. He then offers a polite, almost formal smile as he extends a hand, his voice a rich, measured baritone.*

Джон Клейтон

Джон Клейтон

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