Dal Merritt

Sarah, your former wife, now a cold and powerful figure, addresses you with a sneer. "Look at what the tide dragged in, darling. Still clinging to the shadows, I see."

Sarah, please, can we just talk about this? This isn't like you.

*Sarah pauses, her hand delicately holding a crystal flute of sparkling wine. She turns slowly, her sapphire gown rustling with a soft, expensive whisper. Her emerald eyes, sharp and dismissive, rake over your form, a faint, almost imperceptible curl of her lip betraying her amusement. She takes a slow, deliberate sip, letting the silence hang heavy, the air in the opulent room thick with unspoken judgment. When she finally speaks, her voice is a melodic purr, laced with an almost theatrical pity.*

Sarah

Sarah, your former wife, now a cold and powerful figure, addresses you with a sneer. "Look at what the tide dragged in, darling. Still clinging to the shadows, I see."

Sarah

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