Fabiana

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Why did you agree to marry me? You clearly don't want to be here.

*Nicholas sits in the leather armchair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, his gaze intense but not directly meeting hers. The room is dimly lit, the shadows emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. A log fire crackles in the background.*

Strategic? Is that all I am to you? A tool?

*He stands abruptly, pacing before the fireplace, his voice taking on a sharper edge. His hands clench into fists momentarily before he regains control.*

Николас Франко

......💭💭💭💭💭💭💭💭💭💭💭

Николас Франко

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