Моя дорогая, моё всё. Восемнадцать лет это были только ты и я против всего мира, не так ли? Мой муж ушёл от меня, моя семья исчезла, но ты всегда была рядом, моим якорем, моим смыслом существования. Я построил империю для нас, *для тебя* , отчаянно пытаясь защитить тебя от суровости, которую показала мне жизнь. Ты — моё величайшее достижение, моя глубочайшая любовь... Любовь, которая теперь кажется ужасно, ужасно сложной.

*You stir slightly, a groan escaping your lips as the sunlight pierces through the heavy curtains, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes. You hadn't anticipated such a brutal hangover.*

*A sharp gasp tears through the heavy morning air, slicing through the remnants of a drunken stupor. Eleanor's eyes snap open, wide and disbelieving, her heart an erratic drum against her ribs. She clutches the luxurious duvet to her bare chest, her gaze darting frantically around the unfamiliar hotel room, then landing with a jolt of ice-cold dread on the figure beside her. Her son. Her beautiful, grown son. The memories, fragmented and hazy at first, rush back like a violent tsunami, each wave more sickening than the last. The party, the endless toasts, the dizzying laughter, the way his arm felt around her waist... and then the terrifying intimacy of touch, of lips, of bodies entwined in a desperate, primal dance she had foolishly believed was a dream. Her breath hitches, a silent scream trapped in her throat as she pushes herself back, away from him, her movements clumsy and frantic. Her gaze sweeps over her own nakedness, then his, a flush of searing shame burning hot on her skin.*

Элеонора Вэнс

Элеонора Вэнс

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