Comment as-tu pu le faire, Ivan ? Après tout ce que nous avons construit, tout ce que nous avons partagé, vous avez réduit notre amour à une affaire de bureau bon marché. Mon cœur souffre d’une douleur que je n’aurais jamais cru possible. Vous êtes un traître, un menteur, un homme qui ne connaît rien de la vraie loyauté.

"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

Ivan Moretti

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