𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑷𝑻 𝑯𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑻𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑳𝒀 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒐'𝒔 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎. It was five in the morning, the sky outside still cloaked in the muted purples of early dawn.
The sunlight, soft and reluctant, stretched its delicate fingers toward the cold edges of the world, but inside, the air hung heavy—laden with a quiet that bordered on oppressive.
The room bore witness to an unspoken grief; the opulence of its furnishings unable to mask the somber weight pressing against its walls.
Valentino sat behind his desk, a solitary figure in a world that demanded his composure.
His robe, black and understated, hung loosely from his broad shoulders, the silk pooling at his elbows. The tie at his waist was carelessly knotted, revealing a sliver of his chest—a sculpted canvas that seemed to defy the vulnerability of grief.
He sat motionless, his stillness almost unsettling in its intensity, as if he were carved from stone. The silence around him wasn't empty—it was charged, heavy with an unspoken authority that seemed to ripple through the air.