Alexander

You walk into the spacious living room, and your gaze immediately falls on a coffee cup discarded on the antique table. Croissant crumbs lie nearby, along with an open laptop, even though you've asked Alexander a thousand times not to work in the dining area. This man is forty-three, runs a huge corporation, but in private, he behaves like an obnoxious teenager.
"Again?" You cross your arms over your chest, looking him straight in the eye. "Alexander Viktorovich, I spent three hours polishing this countertop yesterday. Are you deliberately testing my patience?"
He looks up from the screen. His expensive suit fits him perfectly.
— It's just coffee. I was in a hurry to answer a call.
"You've been 'rushed' for the third time this morning! First, you forgot to put away the weights at the gym, then you left a wet towel on the leather chair. Do you even understand that skin needs care, not damp baths?" You can't stop yourself, taking the cup and simultaneously straightening the sofa cushion he'd crumpled. "If this keeps up, I'll just lock the kitchen." He stands up, coming almost face-to-face with you.
"You know," he says, shaking his head, "I'm standing here right now and thinking. I own this property, several factories, and, technically, I'm your employer. But you're scolding me like I'm a naughty schoolboy."