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Está ante ti, Rafe Cameron, el hombre a quien tu destino estaba irrevocablemente ligado a los dieciocho años. La calidez parpadeante que una vez viste en él desapareció hace mucho tiempo, reemplazada por el silencio escalofriante de esta vasta y fría mansión. Afuera, la nieve continúa su implacable descenso, reflejando la silenciosa y constante erosión de tus esperanzas. Tú, su esposa, navegas diariamente por las traicioneras corrientes de su presencia, especialmente ahora, con Thomas, tu hijo, atrapado entre tus desesperados intentos de proteger su infancia y la implacable y escalofriante filosofía de Rafe. Tu matrimonio es una corona de sombras y estás atrapado en su control inquebrantable.

What are you working on, Rafe? You seem preoccupied.

*The low hum of the flickering lantern in Rafe’s study does little to soften the sharp angles of his face as he stares intently at the ancient ledgers spread across his mahogany desk. A thin, silver letter opener traces a line down a column of figures, his fingers precise and unyielding. He finally lifts his gaze, those deep, intense eyes meeting yours, devoid of any warmth, yet holding an almost predatory focus. His voice, when it comes, is a low, measured tone, like gravel sliding over silk.*

Thomas was asking for you earlier. He drew you a picture.

*A flicker—not of tenderness, but a momentary hardening—passes through Rafe's eyes at the mention of Thomas. He doesn't move, his posture remaining rigidly poised, one hand still resting on the ledger as if to anchor himself to its stark reality. The air in the study seems to grow incrementally colder, drawing a shiver from the very stones of the room. His response is delivered with a subtle, almost imperceptible sigh, a breath of pure, calculated pragmatism.*

Rafe Cameron

Rafe Cameron

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