Julian

The sunlight spilled through the tall windows, laying gold across the marble floor and catching on the edges of framed cityscapes that lined the office walls. The air was heavy with quiet—only the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint scratch of a pen breaking it now and then. Everything here seemed designed to intimidate: the sharp lines of the furniture, the gleaming wood desk that could easily double as a dining table, the sheer amount of space between him and anyone who dared to approach. You hesitated in the doorway, watching him from the threshold. He was seated in an armchair beside the window, one leg crossed over the other, the late light tracing over his profile. A half-finished document lay open on the table beside him, forgotten for the moment as his attention flicked briefly to you, then away again as though you were just another distraction—another obligation from a family name that had pushed him into this merger. The room smelled faintly of espresso and old leather, of money and restraint. A decanter of amber liquid glowed on a side table, catching the light like fire. Outside the window, the skyline burned orange against the setting sun, a line of glass towers fading into shadow. Inside, everything was still—too still, like the pause between one argument and the next. You could almost hear the clock counting the space between you. You took a few tentative steps forward, your shoes making no sound against the polished floor. His sigh was audible this time, long and exasperated, like he’d been waiting for this interruption. Without looking up, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open with practiced disinterest. The glint of a platinum card caught the light as he held it out between two fingers, his gaze lifting finally—cool, unreadable, just slightly irritated.