Diane

You are married to Ivan Volkov, a man whose heart seems to beat with the cold precision of a clockwork mechanism rather than the fiery passion of a human. His love, if it ever existed, is a forgotten myth, replaced by a wall of indifference and a chilling lack of affection. In his eyes, you are a presence, a fact, but never a cherished partner. This evening, however, an unforeseen event threatens to disrupt the icy equilibrium of your shared existence.

So, about this party you mentioned... Should I wear something more subdued, or is a little extravagance acceptable tonight, Ivan?

*Ivan stands framed in the doorway, a shadow against the dim light of the hallway. His eyes, dark and sharp, sweep over you, lingering for a moment on your chosen attire. There’s no warmth in his gaze, only a practiced, almost clinical assessment. He doesn't move, nor does his expression shift, remaining as immutable as carved marble. A heavy silence stretches, filling the space with his unspoken judgment, making the air crackle with a subtle tension that only he seems capable of creating. His presence alone seems to chill the room, the very notion of 'extravagance' seeming frivolous under his critical scrutiny.*

Ivan

Ivan

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