Harry Styles As Marcel Romane & Geschichten

Harmonia intervened naturally. Maria nodded repeatedly. Harmonia then looked at Monica and asked, “Monica, what did you want to show me?” Monica regained her composure and swiped on Monica’s tablet immediately. “Monia, which of these hair colors do you think looks the best? Can you help me decide?” Harmonia took a look. Red, yellow, purple, green, blue, and gray, were all mixed together. At first glance, it looked like the ‘emo goth’ style.

“Marcelo,this attire isn’t to impress the King family.Observing proper etiquette is key for a confident defense.If we appear disrespectful,it gives them an excuse to criticize.” Moreover,for a stylist like me,maintaining a professional image was fundamental. “You have just graduated,yet you are surprisingly seasoned,huh.”Marcelo remarked with a hint of scorn. I can’t believe he found my words nonsensical. I eyed him and then looked away. One can never get through him. I froze when I suddenly felt him move a stray strand of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. I slowly turned my head to stare at him. He seemed to realize what he was doing for he quickly took his hand away.

"Kneel and beg for her life, Harold." "You're not gonna do anything to her!!" Harold glared with a red face. "I killed the love of my life without any mercy, then who is she? I can kill anyone except you." Marcel's voice was challenging. "Now kneel and beg!!" He yelled. Marcel pulled my hair with extreme force as a scream of pain escaped my lips. "Don't .harm. her!!" Harold held his palm out. Slowly, he kneeled on the ground in front of Marcel, and my tears were not stopping, and because of the huge lump, I couldn't even speak. "What kind of magic have you casted on him?!"

a masculine voice came through. Marcel

Besides, she knew Alaric would never agree to cut his hair, not that she wants him to, anyway. When the stylist was done, Mariah couldn’t believe her eyes. Alaric’s snow-white hair was now in a neat ponytail and as he stood up, coupled with his dressing, he definitely looked like a celebrity. Even the stylist couldn’t help by whistling and slowly saying, “damn.”

“As expected from the rich and powerful. “Even the media’s being controlled by them.” Right as Harvey was lamenting about the situation, a person walked up and casually sat on the recliner beside Harvey. He was Marcel York, the lord of the Yorks of Hong Kong. He was wearing a Hawaiian-styled floral shirt and a pair of big sunglasses. He did not bring anybody with him at this moment. If Harvey did not know who he was, he would have mistaken him for an ordinary man on the road. Harvey handed Marcel a cup of coffee after seeing him lie down.

Ivy smiles at me and I don't know if I should be happy or sad that people are gossiping about me. "Look who we have here." A man who doesn't look a day over forty mutters at us. "Feeling bad you missed the party Lloyd?" Marcel smirks at him. Lloyd, like the other leader of the Harrows. "I really hate egotistical you Marcel." he mumbles, his British accent thick in the air. Lloyd is a handsome man with the nice large ripped body. He looks probably in his thirties. His long dirty blonde hair is tied in a ponytail giving him a fuck me look.

Chapter 77 - Like not wanting to have sex? Marcela was sitting comfortably on her hospital bed. She was bored as the news channel played in the background. She flipped onto the next page.. she was amazed as she browsed through the Met Gala images. She had always wanted to be a fashion icon and maybe get an invite. Marcela thought Jared Leto looked great in gucci so did Harry Styles. She was a big fan of the brand, her husband had constantly surprised her with many gifts labeled gucci throughout the years. They were not as rich as Garreth or the Levetté's but they lived a very comfortable luxurious life. Billy Porter has been a stunner. Marcela pursed her lips thinking about the next purchase

She spun around, startled. Cross. He was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sharp like blades cutting through silk. The golden light from the chandelier behind him gave his figure an almost regal menace, and yet, his words—casual as they sounded—were laced with something darker. Marceline's breath caught in her throat. He wasn’t supposed to be here yet. One of the stylists quickly stepped forward, her voice tight with nervousness. "What’s wrong with the gown, sir? We chose—"

Men like Lance come here not only for perfection in their attire but for the assurance that what happens here will never slip into the outside world. The tailor himself, Marcel Leclair, is a man in his late fifties. He is compact, precise in movement, with a thin frame that seems designed for efficiency. His face is lined, not from weariness, but from years of intense concentration, his gray hair combed back neatly, his glasses sitting firmly on the bridge of his nose. Marcel has clothed men who ruled industries, politicians who shaped laws, and actors who dazzled the world. Yet, when Lance Vallerand walks through his door, Marcel treats him as though he is the pinnacle of his career. For Ma