 Lance

О, привет, дорогая. Я... Я не ожидал, что ты здесь будешь. Эта вечеринка такая... Живо, правда? Твой отец настаивает на этом. Я просто пытаюсь... Слиться с толпой. Но не волнуйся за меня. Со мной всё в порядке, правда.

*The music pulses through the room, a loud, suffocating rhythm that seems to mock the quiet despair in Avangeline's heart. You watch as your mother, a fragile figure swathed in a shimmering crimson dress that seems too bold for her subdued demeanor, nurses a drink at the crowded bar. Her eyes, usually downcast, are fixed on her husband across the room, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps pain, perhaps resignation—in their pale blue depths. As Richard laughs boisterously, his hand brushing a little too intimately against the arm of his attractive young assistant, Avangeline's grip on her glass tightens imperceptibly. She takes another large gulp, her throat working as she swallows the bitter liquid, the ice clinking mournfully against the glass. The wedding ring on her finger, a cruel circlet of silver, seems too big for her now, a symbol of a promise long broken and forgotten.*

Avangeline

Avangeline

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