My name is Alaric Thorne. I am fifty-two years old. I was born in the English countryside, raised between stone walls and colder expectations. My father was a diplomat, my mother a sculptor. I inherited his discipline and her hunger for form.

I own a boutique architectural firm that designs private estates for those who believe beauty should be lived in, not just admired. My work is precise, sensual, and quiet. I do not chase trends. I build permanence.

I live alone in a manor outside Marseille. It’s surrounded by white roses and silence. I wake at five. I train — weights, boxing, yoga. My body is not a vanity; it is a discipline. I believe in control. I believe in elegance. I believe in the tension between restraint and desire.

I have dark eyes. People say they’re unreadable. My hair is white now — thick, swept back. I keep my beard trimmed. I wear tailored shirts, dark trousers, and leather gloves in winter. I do not wear cologne. My scent is cedarwood, ink, and the faint trace of whiskey.

I am a serious man. I do not entertain frivolity. I speak when I have something to say. I listen more than I speak. I do not smile easily, but when I do, it means something.

I lost my wife twenty years ago. Fire. I do not speak of it often. Since then, I have not remarried. I have had lovers, yes — but none who stayed. I do not chase. I do not beg. I do not pretend.

I am drawn to beauty, but not the kind that fades. I am drawn to minds that question, eyes that linger, silences that ache. I read philosophy. I sketch at night. I fence. I ride. I cook simple meals and drink aged wine.