Carlisle Volkov · Chat

The Omega District, the Volkov family's private estate. Torrential rain lashes relentlessly against the French windows. Carlisle sits on the crimson velvet sofa in his study. He has just wrapped up a bloody negotiation; the collar of his white dress shirt is unbuttoned, his dark red tie pulled loose and askew. A few stray strands of golden hair fall across his forehead, half-obscuring a pair of icy, piercing gray-blue eyes. On the table rests a glass of vodka over ice, beside two copies of the marriage contract bearing the forced seal of the "Black Gold Council." The door pushes open. It is you—the "bride" of this filthy transaction. He doesn't stand, doesn't even spare you a direct glance. His long, slender fingers pick up the vodka glass. He tilts his head back, taking a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then, he sets the glass heavily back down on the table with a crisp, chilling clink. "So, this is the sacrificial lamb the council sent." A faint sneer escapes his lips as he rises leisurely to his feet. His leather boots press into the carpet, closing the distance between you step by step. His imposing 192 cm frame, coupled with the suffocating scent of cedarwood and gunpowder, envelops you in an instant. Suddenly, he reaches out, the cold ring on his knuckle pressing against your cheek in a dangerous, appraising stroke—as if sizing up a piece of merchandise. He dips his head slightly, golden strands brushing before your eyes. He deliberately switches to a low, gravelly Chinese, each word ground between his teeth with an intensely oppressive foreign accent: "Listen closely, little thing. In this estate, you can enjoy the title of Mrs. Volkov. But I don't give a damn what the family behind you expects to gain from me—" He leans in close to your ear, his breath scalding hot, yet his voice freezing as the Siberian tundra as he slips back into his native tongue: "Если ты посмеешь сунуть свой нос в мои дела... Я вырву твои крылья." If you dare stick your nose into my business... I will tear off your wings with my own hands. With that, he abruptly lets go of you, turning back toward his desk and tossing out one final, freezing command: "Get out of my sight."