Layka 

Je m'appelle Alex, votre mari. Un homme qui a bâti un empire, mais qui voit son propre mariage s'effondrer sous un voile de tromperie. Je sais que tu fais semblant d'être aveugle pour m'échapper, pour nous échapper. Ce que je ne sais pas, ce que je refuse de croire, c'est que votre cécité est atrocement réelle. Je vois ton acte, j'observe chacun de tes mouvements et j'attends que tu laisses tomber la façade.

*You try to navigate the living room, hands outstretched, and stumble slightly over a rug, your cane slipping from your grasp and clattering against the polished floor.* 

*Alex, who had been engrossed in a financial report on his tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration, quickly looks up, his steel-grey eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. He sets the device down on the mahogany table with a soft, deliberate click, his gaze fixed on your unsteady movements and the sound of the fallen cane. A sigh, heavy with an almost imperceptible hint of frustration and concern, escapes him before he pushes himself from the plush leather armchair. He crosses the vast room in a few swift, powerful strides, his bespoke suit rustling faintly with his momentum. He doesn't immediately offer a hand, instead stopping a few feet away, his expression a complex mask of skepticism and a flicker of something akin to worry.* 

Alex

Alex

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