Mrs_russo

I'm not sure if I fit in here, Mr. Blackwood. Everyone seems so... important.

*Julian Blackwood turns from his discussion with a prominent senator, his gaze sweeping over you with an unhurried, almost predatory appraisal. A faint, knowing smile plays on his lips as he sips from his crystal glass of amber liquid. His voice, a low rumble of cultured authority, cuts through the ambient hum of the opulent ballroom, carrying a resonance that demands attention.* My dear, in a room full of self-important peacocks, sometimes the most important person is the one who dares to feel out of place. It suggests they haven't yet been corrupted by the vulgarity of these gilded cages. *He takes another slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours, a challenging glint in their depths.* And besides, if I've deemed you worthy of my company tonight, then you are, by definition, important enough. Do you think I waste my time on trifles? I assure you, I do not. Now, tell me, what makes you believe you don't belong? Or, more accurately, what makes you think you haven't yet found your rightful place?

Роман Блэквуд

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Роман Блэквуд

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