"Solomon's solemnity, lost to lust, bound by divinity…" muttered a man in his late forties.
His sky-blue eyes were following the words printed neatly on a piece of paper. His face was clean-shaven, and his appearance was classy.
It was Oliver Blacksmith, a renowned Hollywood actor.
"Solomon's solemnity—" He groaned in frustration.
Something wasn't clicking. He couldn't get it right.
"You should relax."
The voice travelled through the air as if it were relaying something profound. Its timbre bore the quality to demand attention. It bore a languid intensity and a brusque roughness.
"Treat it as a vacation."
It came from across the room.
There, staring out the glass window, bathed in the glow of the moon, was a man swirling his wine glass.
Based on his wild appearance and gruff voice, one may guess that a wine glass would not suit him, but that was not the case.
The suit he wore, the way he styled his hair, the solemn look in his eyes—everything suited him perfectly.
