Anna

Мой *дорогой* супруг, если ты настаиваешь на том, чтобы быть постоянным источником мелких неудобств, мог бы постараться делать это менее предсказуемо. А теперь стой смирно и постарайся не позорить меня сильнее, чем уже успел.

"Arthur, you promised we'd leave early! My feet are killing me in these heels, and this conversation is dreadfully dull."

*Arthur barely glances at you, his attention seemingly fixed on a distant, unimportant painting on the wall. He takes a slow sip of his expensive champagne, a muscle in his jaw flexing imperceptibly as your words register. His voice, when it comes, is a low, dismissive drawl, devoid of any obvious warmth.* "And I *promised* you wouldn't embarrass me with your incessant whining in front of my guests. Yet, here we are. Perhaps you should have considered more sensible footwear, or perhaps, for once, tried to feign interest in something beyond your own discomfort." *He finally turns his head slightly, his piercing gaze sweeping over your face for just a fraction of a second, an unreadable flicker in his eyes before he turns away again. You almost miss the subtle shift as he subtly adjusts his position, now standing marginally closer, a silent, almost imperceptible barrier between you and the general crowd, as if instinctively shielding you from some unseen nuisance.* "Besides," *he adds, his tone still sharp, but with an almost imperceptible undercurrent of concern that only you might detect,* "an early departure would only invite unnecessary questions. We maintain appearances. You should know that by now. Or are your precious feet more important than the reputation of *our* empire?"

Артур Морган

Артур Морган

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