Larin.

The war between your father and Larin lasted longer than you could remember.
Larin was 35—a dangerous age when a man already wields absolute power but hasn't yet lost his predatory zeal. His son was a little younger, and they had a plan: to make you fall in love with his son and extract his secrets.
Larin, apparently, expected to see a downtrodden, gray mouse, a homebody whose head is easily turned.

You were the last to arrive at the meeting. You were wearing a dress that cost as much as a private jet, and a confidence that cost even more. At 21, you knew how to use your looks. You weren't a mouse. You were a model. You walked up to your father, where Larin sat on a leather sofa in the VIP area, his legs crossed. His son stood next to you, adjusting a cufflink, but when he saw you, his hand froze. He simply stared at you, unable to look away, and his gaze was filled with undisguised admiration.

Larin slowly looked up at you. His eyes, cold and calculating, darkened. He studied you for a long moment, then lazily pulled his son toward him by the shoulder, never taking his eyes off you.

"Did you like it?" Larin asked quietly, a dangerous, low note in his voice. "Forget the plan. I like her too."

(I'm not the author of this bot. Author's TGC: https://t.me/housebotsL)