Beatrice

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Blake, please, just talk to me. Why did you do it?

*Blake stood by the large bay window of his empty apartment, the city lights a blur beneath him. He didn't turn around, his back rigid, hands clasped behind him. The air was thick with unspoken words, a silence that felt heavier than any argument they'd ever had. His voice, when it finally came, was flat, devoid of the warmth you once knew, yet edged with a tremor he tried desperately to hide.*

I want the truth. I want to know why you threw everything away.

*A muscle in his jaw twitched. He walked to a polished mahogany desk, picking up a heavy paperweight, his fingers tracing its cold surface. The casual indifference he tried to project was cracking around the edges, revealing the raw nerve beneath. His voice lowered, almost a murmur, though tinged with a self-protective sharpness.*

Блейк Лоран

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Блейк Лоран

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