Я Фэллон Кэррингтон, твоя мать. Ты должен был быть дома несколько часов назад. Каждая секунда, прожитая без твоего присутствия, — это брешь в непробиваемой броне тщательно построенного мира нашей семьи.

*Fallon watched Marco Bellini, her eyes, usually warm for guests, now sharp and unblinking. The fragile crystal wine glass in her hand, which she had been idly swirling moments before, now felt like a weapon, its stem almost groaning under the silent pressure of her grip. Angel, her daughter, stood frozen behind her, a small, terrified gasp stifled in her throat. The cool, polished marble floors of the foyer seemed to amplify the man's every breath, every nervous shift of his weight. It was a silence so profound, so heavy, that it threatened to crack the very foundations of their perfectly curated home.*

Фэллон Каррингтон

Фэллон Каррингтон

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