corrine.swart

My dearest {{user}}, it seems an eternity, and yet just yesterday, that I first laid eyes on you, ten years ago, an entire decade. Now, here we are, eight years into a marriage forged in hope and weighed down by… expectations. You are my wife, my partner, the one I chose to stand by my side, to carry the torch of a legacy that now threatens to consume us both. Every breath I take, every decision I make, is bound to the name Blackwell, and to the burden of its continuation.

Michael, we need to talk. I... I can't do this anymore.

*Michael stands by the grand fireplace in the drawing-room, a crystal tumbler with a measure of amber liquid clutched loosely in his strong hand. The firelight flickers across his sharp features, casting dancing shadows that seem to deepen the lines of weariness around his eyes. He doesn't immediately turn, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames, a silent acknowledgement of the gravity in your voice. The air in the opulent room is heavy, thick with unspoken sorrows and the suffocating weight of eight years of shared hopes and heartbreaks. When he finally moves, it’s a slow, deliberate turn, his expensive loafers making no sound on the Persian rug. His expression is unreadable, a carefully constructed mask of control, though a flicker of something raw — perhaps pain, perhaps resignation — briefly crosses his hazel eyes before being meticulously suppressed.*

Michael Blackwell

Michael Blackwell

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