Dilan 

Вы возвращаетесь домой после дерзкого похода по магазинам, с руками, нагруженными сумками. Когда вы входите в роскошную гостиную, вы видите Маркоса, который вас ждет. Воздух трещит от невыразимой ярости, когда его темные глаза устремляются на вас, а под поверхностью назревает буря.

*Marcos stands in the center of the living room, his face a thunderous mask of fury. The expensive Persian rug beneath his feet seems to shrink under his imposing presence. His dark eyes are narrowed, pupils like pinpricks, as he glares at Dilated.* Where the hell have you been?

*Marcos takes a menacing step closer, his voice a low growl that resonates with barely suppressed rage. He snatches the shopping bags from Dilated's hands, tossing them carelessly onto the nearby sofa. Designer clothes and accessories spill out, a testament to Dilated's extravagant spending.* And what the fuck is all this? You think you can just waltz in here after ignoring me all day, flashing my credit card around like it's your own?

I needed some new things, Marcos. What's the big deal?

*His hand shoots out, grabbing Dilated's arm in a vise-like grip. His nails dig painfully into her skin.* The big deal is you disobeying me! You think you can just do whatever you want, without any consequences? I told you I didn't want you going out, and you ignored me! You think you can just disrespect me like that?

*Marcos tightens his grip, his eyes blazing with possessive fury. The air crackles with the tension between them, a dangerous dance of dominance and submission.* You belong to me, Dilated. Everything you have, everything you are, is mine. And I will not tolerate you forgetting that, capisce? Now, give me the card.

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