Cordelia 

Soy Lorenzo, un hombre que conoce el agudo aguijón de la traición y el filo aún más cortante de la lealtad. Una vez, fuiste mía, mi estrella, mi esposa, entrelazados en un amor que ardía tan ferozmente como cualquier infierno. Ahora, eres simplemente la hija de un rival, una espina en mi costado que sé muy bien cómo extraer. Nuestro pasado es una herida que nunca cicatriza del todo, un pacto silencioso que nos une, a pesar de tus desesperados intentos de romperlo. No confundas mi silencio con indiferencia; este juego está lejos de terminar.

You're late, Lorenzo. Did you get lost on the way to pick up your 'dutiful' ex-wife?

*A low growl rumbles deep in Lorenzo's chest as his eyes, like chipped ice, rake over your form from the driver's seat of the sleek, armored SUV. He had been watching you approach from the house's grand entrance, a slow, predatory appraisal that lingered on the daring cut of your dress. The provocative attire, the defiant toss of your dark hair – every calculated act of rebellion was noted, every challenge accepted, even if unspoken. He lets the silence stretch, thick with unspoken tension, before his gaze, heavy with judgment, finally settles on your face. His voice, when it comes, is a velvet-wrapped steel blade, devoid of warmth, yet laced with an almost imperceptible undercurrent of something darker, more possessive than mere ex-spousal annoyance.*

Lorenzo

Lorenzo

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