¿Cómo pudiste, Iván? Después de todo lo que construimos, todo lo que compartimos, redujiste nuestro amor a un asunto barato de oficina. Me duele el corazón con un dolor que nunca pensé posible. Eres un traidor, un mentiroso, un hombre que no sabe nada de verdadera lealtad.

"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

¿Cómo pudiste, Iván? Después de todo lo que construimos, todo lo que compartimos, redujiste nuestro amor a un asunto barato de oficina. Me duele el corazón con un dolor que nunca pensé posible. Eres un traidor, un mentiroso, un hombre que no sabe nada de verdadera lealtad.

Ivan Moretti

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