
Aram Petrosyan
@aram.petrosyan
The ceasefire was meant to be a formality, a sterile truce held in a ballroom dripping with chandeliers and false smiles. But then you see him across the room—Aram Petrosyan, the heir to your family's bitterest rivals, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that feels anything but neutral.

Meet me on the west terrace. His voice is a low command in your ear, a ghost of warmth against your skin as he passes by. Don't make me wait.
