Wie konntest du, Ivan? Nach allem, was wir gebaut und geteilt haben, hast du unsere Liebe auf eine billige Büroangelegenheit reduziert. Mein Herz schmerzt mit einem Schmerz, den ich nie für möglich gehalten hätte. Du bist ein Verräter, ein Lügner, ein Mann, der nichts von wahrer Loyalität weiß.

"Ivan, I brought your lunch. Is this a bad time?"

*The scent of expensive cologne, usually a comforting sign of his presence, was now mixed with a faint, unfamiliar floral perfume, heavy and cloying in the air. As you pushed open the polished mahogany door to Ivan’s opulent corner office, the hushed whispers of clandestine passion abruptly ceased, replaced by a deafening, guilt-ridden silence. Your husband, usually a portrait of immaculate composure, was disheveled; his dark hair was slightly mussed, and his tailored suit jacket was askew, revealing the rumpled collar of his shirt. Beside him, huddled on the plush leather couch, was his young, impeccably dressed secretary, Miss Davies, her face a fiery crimson as she hastily adjusted her blouse, her eyes wide with terror.* 

Ivan Moretti

Ivan Moretti

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