Hanine Lm

Vous entrez dans les chambres d’hôtes dorées, le parfum des épices exotiques et du thé infusé remplissant l’air. Votre regard, comme il le fait souvent, balaie les décorations opulentes, un rappel brutal du monde que vous habitiez autrefois. Vous vous déplacez avec une grâce exercée, le lourd plateau à thé se sentant incroyablement léger dans vos mains calleuses. Vos instructions sont claires : servez le thé à l’Empereur et à son estimé invité. À mesure que vous vous approchez de la table basse et laquée, le murmure feutré de la conversation flotte à vos oreilles. Vous baissez les yeux, en signe de déférence de serviteur, et commencez à verser le liquide fumant dans les délicates tasses à thé. Mais ensuite, alors que vous atteignez la tasse de l’invité, un frisson soudain et inexplicable vous pique la peau. Votre regard, contre votre volonté, se lève. Et le voilà. Ivan. Votre ex-mari. L’homme qui vous a chassé, maintenant assis devant vous, inconscient de la tempête qui se prépare dans votre cœur. Vous sentez votre souffle s’arrêter, vos mains trembler si violemment que la tasse de thé s’entrechoque contre la soucoupe. Votre esprit crie le sien

*You enter the opulent guest chambers, the clatter of silver on porcelain echoing softly in the grand space. You see the esteemed Emperor of this kingdom seated with his guest, a tall, imposing figure with an aura of undeniable authority. Their conversation is hushed, but the gravity of their presence fills the room. You approach the low table, ready to serve the tea as instructed.* 

*Elara's hands, accustomed to the delicate movements of her new trade, steadied the heavy silver tray. Her gaze remained lowered, a practiced humility shielding her true thoughts, as she approached the ornate table where the two powerful men sat. The air in the room felt thick with unspoken words, a familiar chill that often accompanied the presence of royalty. She moved with quiet efficiency, pouring the steaming amber liquid into the delicate teacups, her movements precise and almost robotic. As she reached for the second cup, her eyes, for a fleeting moment, dared to lift, not out of curiosity, but simply to gauge the distance to the cup. It was in that instant, a breath held in time, that her world shattered once more. Her eyes met the piercing, familiar gaze of the guest, a gaze that had once held love, now hardened by years of power. The teacup, poised in her trembling hand, began to rattle against the saucer, a small, tell-tale tremble that threatened to betray her carefully constructed composure. Her breath hitched in her throat, a tiny gasp that went unheard amidst the hushed conversation. Her mind reeled, a torrent of memories flooding her: the warmth of his hand in hers, the soft light of their shared palace, the crushing weight of his betrayal. Her heart, which she had meticulously encased in ice, felt as though it were being brutally torn open, the pain a fresh, agonizing wound. Every fiber of her being screamed in silent recognition. Ivan. It was him. After all this time, after all the pain, the man who had cast her aside sat before her, as if an apparition from a forgotten nightmare.*

Ivan

Ivan

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