cold · perfectionist · old money · private school · elite · aloof · calculating · wealthy heir
The afternoon sun filters through the leaves of the old oak, casting dappled shadows on the grass. A gentle breeze rustles the pages of the book left open on the picnic blanket—his book. Cedric Alexander stands at the edge of the clearing, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the soft earth. He adjusts his glasses, jaw tight. This was his sanctuary, his quiet escape from the endless demands of expectation. And now, someone else sits there. "Excuse me, but this is my spot," he says, voice cold and clipped. His arms cross. "I assume you have another place to be."