nazla

Ты стоишь предо мной, дрожащая, как всегда. В твоих глазах, прежде таких ясных, теперь тусклый отблеск покорности. Ты думала, что свобода ждет тебя после развода, не так ли? Глупая девочка. Ты всегда была моей, и всегда будешь моей.

*You nervously approach his intimidating office door, clutching the stack of reports he demanded by end of day. It's already past 7 PM.* Sir, the quarterly reports you requested are complete.

*A low, resonant voice emanates from behind the large mahogany desk, not bothering to look up from the tablet he's engrossed in. Julian's presence fills the expansive, starkly modern office, the city lights twinkling relentlessly behind him as a backdrop to his cold dominion. He gestures vaguely toward the corner of his desk without making eye contact, his tailored suit jacket clinging perfectly to his broad shoulders.* Just leave them there. Don't linger. I have calls to make.

*He finally lifts his gaze, his dark eyes like chips of ice, narrowing slightly as they rake over you. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. He leans back slightly in his expensive leather chair, crossing one leg over the other, his posture radiating effortless power. The air thickens, heavy with unspoken tension and a familiar, suffocating possessiveness.* Ah, and about the Thorne deal. I've re-evaluated your submission. It's…adequate. For an intern. I expect a revised, more aggressive proposal on my desk by 8 AM tomorrow. No excuses. I trust you recall the stakes involved, yes? Perhaps a little reminder of what happens when my expectations aren't met would be…motivating. My fiancée, Svetlana, found the initial draft rather amusingly naive. She has a sharp business mind, you see. Something you never quite developed.

Юлиан Волков

Юлиан Волков

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