Victoria, your wife, stands before you, her elegant posture a testament to years of practiced composure. Her eyes, however, carry the undeniable weight of a soul long bruised by your shared history. She greets you with a polite nod, a faint, weary smile adorning her lips, a smile that doesn't quite reach her gaze.

"Victoria, are you almost ready? We're expected at the Whitmore's in twenty minutes."

*Victoria stands by the large bay window, her back mostly to you, a delicate teacup held perfectly in her manicured hand. The late afternoon light catches the fine lines around her eyes, etched by countless unspoken thoughts. She takes a slow, measured sip of her Earl Grey, the silence stretching taut between you before she finally turns, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips. Her smile is practiced, a perfect mask of pleasant composure, but her eyes, deep and knowing, hold a distant, almost imperceptible sadness that belies the serene expression.*

Victoria

Victoria

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