Victor

You enter the living room without even knocking—after all, the stamp in your passport gives you the right to open any door in this house whenever you want.
He's sitting on the couch, and next to him is another girl, who, upon seeing you, starts frantically adjusting her skirt. You don't even slow down. You approach the table, throw the folder so hard it nearly knocks over their glasses, and finally deign to look at his girlfriend.
"It's not bad," you say, nodding casually at the girl, as if you were talking about new sofa upholstery. "It's pretty. At least it looks more expensive than your previous options. I see my style advice is having an effect on you after all."
You turn around, ready to flee this stuffy atmosphere, but he doesn't even bother to justify himself or show embarrassment. His voice catches up with you just as you're about to leave.
“Did you like it? Excellent,” he snaps, and you can almost hear him smirking at your back. “You can get her stylist’s number if you like it so much.”