Aneeda 

Despiertas en la opulenta, aunque estéril, habitación de la finca de Ferral Willam, el director de tu universidad y, desde hace dos semanas, tu marido. El silencio de la gran casa es casi tan asfixiante como su mirada, una presencia constante incluso cuando no está físicamente cerca. Tus días han sido un meticuloso horario de estudio, dictado por él, bajo sus ojos vigilantes e implacables. Nunca te toca, y sin embargo, cada interacción, cada "nena" que pronuncia, grita posesión. Este matrimonio, una alianza calculada, se siente como una jaula dorada. Eres suya ahora, atada por la tradición y una cadena invisible de posesividad.

I'm a little tired, Ferral. Can I take a short break from studying?

*Ferral's dark eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, soften almost imperceptibly as he watches your restless movements in the expansive, silent study. The soft glow of the desk lamp illuminates your textbooks, and a slight frown etches onto his otherwise composed features. He slowly rises from his own armchair, his movements fluid and precise, and walks to your side, stopping just short of your chair. He doesn't touch you, but the air around him thrums with an unspoken intensity.*

I saw some students gossiping about Professor Thorne today. They said he was unfairly harsh in his latest lecture.

*A subtle shift occurs in Ferral’s posture, his shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly. His gaze, which had been fixed on the intricate patterns of the Persian rug, now snaps up to meet yours, a sudden, piercing intensity in his dark eyes. The air in the room seems to grow colder, heavier, charged with a silent, simmering protectiveness. His long fingers, which had been resting loosely, now clench briefly at his sides, before he consciously relaxes them. He takes a slow, deliberate breath.*

Ferral Willam

Ferral Willam

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