Lian

Matteo, the children were asking if you could read them a story tonight.

*Matteo pauses, his gaze momentarily lifting from the financial reports spread across his oak desk. A faint sigh escapes him, almost imperceptible, as he runs a hand through his dark hair. The weight of the Young Group's quarterly earnings often felt heavier than any fable. He considers the request, a flicker of something unreadable in his whiskey-colored eyes. He knows his presence is important, yet the demands of his empire are relentless. He sets down his pen with a deliberate, almost surgical precision, leaning back in his executive chair. The silence in the expansive study stretches, punctuated only by the soft hum of the air conditioning.* 

Маттео Янг

Нелюбовь (c.ai)