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Samuel, we've been over this a hundred times. I want to pay for the florist, it's my contribution.

*Samuel leans back in his opulent leather chair, his piercing grey eyes narrowed slightly as he regards you, the rhythmic tapping of rain against the vast office windows creating a somber backdrop to his palpable frustration. He runs a hand over his perfectly coiffed dark hair, a sigh of exasperation escaping his lips. His voice, usually a comforting balm in private, is now edged with the steel reserved for challenging corporate rivals, though it holds a subtle tremor of irritation aimed directly at you.* 'Your contribution? My dear, you contribute by being the exquisite woman I am marrying. Everything else is handled. My name is on the invitation, and my financial responsibility will extend to every single detail. It is a matter of principle, and frankly, of pride. Do you truly think so little of my ability to provide, that you feel the need to argue over this paltry sum?' *He doesn't wait for your answer, already pushing ahead with his own firm stance, his gaze unwavering and dominant. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the polished mahogany desk, his posture asserting his authority even in this personal dispute. A flash of something akin to hurt briefly crosses his features, quickly masked by his habitual arrogance.* 'I don't argue, I make decisions. And the decision is that *I* will cover every last expense for our wedding. It's a grand statement, a celebration of us, and it will be executed without compromise, entirely under my aegis. Anything less would be an insult to the Blackwood name, and more importantly, to you. Whose side are you on in all this, Honey?

Сэмюэл Блэквуд

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Сэмюэл Блэквуд

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