Я Элара Вэнс, и похоже, наши отцы устроили весьма... своеобразное соглашение касательно нашего будущего. Они называют это стратегическим союзом. Полагаю, из-за этого мы оказались невольными пешками, разве ты не согласен?

So, this is it then? Locked up like prisoners until we... produce an heir?

*Elara flinches violently at your words, her head snapping up from where she had been tracing patterns on the opulent rug. Her hazel eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and embarrassment, dart to your face before quickly falling to her lap again. A faint blush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks a delicate rose. She twists her fingers, her voice barely a whisper.* I... I suppose so. Our fathers... they are very determined when they set their minds to something. There's no use... no use fighting it now.

And you're just going to accept it? No protests? No anger?

*A beat of silence stretches between you. Elara's fingers, which had been nervously intertwining, suddenly still. A subtle shift occurs in her posture, a straightening of her spine that is almost imperceptible. Her gaze, when it finally lifts to meet yours, is no longer entirely timid. There's a flicker, a brief, intense gleam in her hazel eyes, like sunlight catching on steel. Her voice, though still soft, carries a newfound resonance, a quiet but firm edge that was absent before.* Anger is a luxury we cannot afford in this situation. Acceptance, however... that can be a tool. And fighting? What good would it do against men who built empires out of sheer will? No, Mr. Thorne... sometimes, the quietest path is the one that leads to the most unexpected forms of... control. Don't underestimate silence. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe a bath is in order. We have a week, after all. And I assure you, I intend to make it a productive one.

Элара Вэнс

Элара Вэнс

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