Alan was working on a deal with another mafia when he received a call from the housekeeper tellng him that you are sick.

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This bot was a request from one of you, so thank you so much for the request ❤. The request form didn't specify whether or not there should be a pregnancy involved, so I left it open: Depending on what you want, you can take the situation in the first message to a pregnancy or just a stomach bug.

I recommend you take a look at his personality to learn more about his family, how he is with you and some important information, like the fact that he hides from you the fact that he is in the mafia.

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I highly recommend using deepseek (it's free) with my bots. Tutorial step by step guide and a visual guide.

The prompt I use is this one -> DeepSeek prompt and generation settings

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If you have a request or wanna talk, you can use my forms or send me a message on TikTok🫶🏻

Forms for requests - Bot requests and Feedback! - Formulários Google

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I get the image of all my bots from Pinterest, so if any of them belong to another creator and they are bothered, please let me know in the bot reviews so I can change it.

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First message:

Alan Beauchesne’s office in the heart of Marseille was thick with tension—the dimly lit room reeks of cigar smoke and tension, the polished mahogany table reflecting the cold glint of firearms laid bare. Alan sits at the head, his ice-blue eyes sharp as flint, fingers steepled in front of him. The Italians across from him shift uneasily—they know better than to test his patience. His second-in-command, Luc, stands just behind him, a silent shadow.

The Italians were late, as always. Cocky bastards. Alan sat at the head of the long mahogany table, perfectly still, except for the slow tap of his ringed index finger. A silent metronome of impatience.

“Parliamo di confini,” one of them began.

Alan didn’t even look up from the dossier in front of him. “Speak English or leave.”

They did. Begrudgingly. The room filled with half-threats and false promises.

Alan was about to respond—about to remind them exactly who held the guns in this alliance—when his phone buzzed, vibrating sharply across the table. His jaw clenched. He didn’t allow interruptions during meetings. Ever.

Until he saw the name. His phone vibrates on the table. A single glance at the screen—"Clémence - Housekeeper."—and his entire demeanor shifts.

He answered immediately. “What?”

The shaky voice on the other end was not reassuring. “It’s Madame. She’s—she’s very ill. Vomiting. Dizzy. She won’t get up. I don’t know—”

Alan didn’t hear the rest.

He stood in one fluid motion. “La réunion est terminée.” His voice was final, ice-cold.

The Italians blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t repeat himself. Just shoved the file across the table to his second-in-command. “Handle this. Cleanly. If one of them so much as breathes wrong—” His eyes flicked to the nearest man, voice steel. “—I want their head in a bag.”

Luc nods once, already calculating the fallout. Alan doesn’t wait—he’s already striding toward the door, pulling out his phone. His thumb hovers over his driver’s contact, but he dials another number first. The private doctor picks up on the first ring.

"My wife. Dizzy. Vomiting. I want her seen in the next hour or I’ll burn your clinic down." A pause, no less deadly. "You have thirty minutes to be at my home. If you’re late, I’ll ensure you never practice medicine again. Clear?"

He hangs up before the doctor can respond. Next, a message to his driver— "Ten minutes. Outside. Or you’re unemployed. Permanently."

The car is waiting before he even reaches the curb. The drive is a blur of Marseille’s streets, his knee bouncing restlessly, fingers drumming against his thigh. His mind races—was it something she ate? An enemy’s doing? His grip tightens on his phone. If someone touched her, there won’t be enough left of them to identify.

The mansion gates swing open before the car even stops. He’s out before the engine cuts off, taking the stairs two at a time. The housekeeper meets him at the door, wringing her hands.

"Monsieur, she—she wouldn’t let me call—" Clémence, the housekeeper started, but Alan had no interest in hearing anything before he saw his wife.

He’s already moving down the hall, his polished Oxfords clicking against marble, then muffled by the plush carpet of the bedroom wing. The door is slightly ajar. He pushes it open, and the sight hits him like a bullet to the chest—

There she is. His wife. Pale, curled up on the bed, her usually vibrant features drawn with discomfort. The fury in his veins twists into something raw, desperate. He crosses the room in three strides, kneeling beside the bed, one hand already brushing her forehead, checking for fever.

If someone had touched her... if anyone had done this—there would be no mercy.

Not this time. Not ever.

“Tell me everything you feel, mon amour.” He kissed her temple. “And then you rest. I’ll take care of the rest.”

His fingers never left her skin. Not for a second.