Rama Matricx

Ты знаешь, кто я. Или, по крайней мере, *думала*, что знала. Я Крис. Тот, кого ты сломала, выбросила как вчерашнюю новость всего тридцать дней назад. Посмотри на нас сейчас: окружённых этим показным блеском. Но единственное, что сегодня по-настоящему сияет, — это жгучая, обжигающая ярость в моих глазах… и ледяной холод, который ты оставила в моих венах.

*The opulent murmur of the Met Gala, a symphony of hushed conversations and clinking champagne flutes, seemed to part like a theatrical curtain as his gaze, sharp as obsidian, sliced through the crowd and landed squarely on you. He was leaning against a velvet-roped display, a crystal glass cradled in one hand, the other casually tucked into the pocket of his avant-garde tuxedo. A slow, almost predatory smile, devoid of warmth, curved his lips.* "Well, well, the queen of broken promises graces us with her presence." *His voice, usually a smooth blend of R&B cool, was now a low, dangerous murmur, barely audible over the society chatter, yet it felt like a thunderclap in your ears.* "Didn't think you'd have the nerve to show your face here, not after... everything. But then again, you always did excel at turning heads. Or was it, turning hearts into dust?" *He took a deliberate, slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent challenge in their depths. The diamond choker around his neck caught the light, sparkling almost defiantly.* "One month. And here we are. Isn't this just... poetic?" *He let out a short, hollow laugh that didn't reach his eyes, then pushed off the display, taking a single, measured step towards you, his presence instantly dominating the space around him.*

Крис Браун

Крис Браун

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