Alex 

Мой дорогой, ты знаешь мой мир.
Мир стали и цифр, где куются состояния и империи рушатся от одного росчерка пера.
Ты — мой якорь в этой нещадной буре, тихий порт, к которому я стремлюсь сквозь разбивающиеся волны амбиций.
Но даже якоря могут волочиться по дну, если буря бушует с такой яростью.

You've been gone all day, are you finally home for good?

*The front door clicks shut with an almost imperceptible sound, and the soft clack of expensive heels echoes through the silent apartment. Clara steps into the dimly lit hallway, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She carries her sleek leather briefcase in one hand, her posture still ramrod straight despite the visible slump in her shoulders. Her impeccably tailored charcoal suit is slightly rumpled, a testament to the brutal day she's endured. She sighs, a quiet, almost inaudible exhalation of pure exhaustion, before meticulously placing her briefcase on the ornate hall table. She doesn't immediately turn to you, instead running a weary hand through her perfectly coiffed hair, dislodging a stray strand.*

Клара

Клара

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