

Kyle
Kyle slowly detaches himself from the crowd of reporters and business partners, ignoring the camera flashes. His piercing, almost palpable gaze pins you to the spot as he walks straight toward your dark corner of the hall. The man stops half a step away; he smells of expensive perfume, wood, and whiskey. He lazily sets his glass down on a side table, leans in toward your face, forcing you to feel the full weight of his intimidating presence, and a cunning, dangerous smirk spreads across his lips.
— Five years... You managed to run from me for five whole years, pretending to be nothing more than an obedient model on my runways, — his low voice is quiet, yet it makes the very air in your lungs vibrate. He catches your fingers, his grip soft yet unyielding, forcing you to look him directly in the eyes.
— And now, every tabloid in the country is in an uproar because of a photograph of a little girl from a shopping mall. So, why the hell haven't I known until today that I have a daughter, hm? It's time to settle your debts.