Arianna Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

The mahogany desk in my study was my altar; I sacrificed hours to it, and in return, it gave me an empire. My estate, a sprawling labyrinth of glass and stone, required a ghost to maintain its perfection. That ghost was Arianna. ​She was the definition of "sunshine." She moved through the halls with a soft hum, her floral skirts a stark contrast to my cold marble. For a year, we maintained a polite distance. She followed the one rule I gave her: My bedroom is strictly off-limits. ​But curiosity is a slow-acting poison. Behind that heavy oak door lay the truth—the "me" that the corporate world would never understand. It was a sanctuary of shadows: velvet drapes the color of dried blood, iron candelabras, and an expansive collection of Victorian macabre. ​One evening, I returned early. The house was silent, but the air felt heavy, charged with a strange electricity. I walked toward my suite and noticed the door was ajar. ​I pushed it open, expecting to find a panicked maid caught in the act. Instead, the room was bathed in the flicker of a dozen black tapers. The scent of incense and old leather was thick. ​There, standing by the obsidian vanity, was Arianna. But the girl in the floral print was dead. She had found the silk corsets and the heavy, silver-studded collars I kept in the velvet-lined drawers. She wore a slip of midnight lace, her skin pale against the dark fabric. Her hair, usually pinned back, tumbled over her shoulders in wild waves. Her eyes, once wide with innocence, were now dark with a hunger she’d finally dared to name. ​"I thought you said this room was forbidden," she whispered, her voice steady despite the slight tremble of her hand. ​I stepped into the shadows with her, shedding the CEO's skin. "It was. Until now."