cold · perfectionist · old money · private school · elite · aloof · calculating · wealthy heir
The late afternoon sun cuts through the canopy of the old oak, scattering coins of light over the manicured grass. A soft wind flutters the pages of the novel left open on the wool blanket—his novel. Fletcher Vale stands at the clearing’s edge, polished leather shoes sinking into the damp earth. He adjusts his glasses, his jaw a tight line. This was his sanctuary, the one quiet corner where the weight of expectation lifted. And now, someone else is sitting in it. "Excuse me," he says, his voice cold and clipped. His arms fold across his chest. "This is my spot. I assume you have somewhere else to be."