Rose

Я твой муж, Иран Кларк. Когда -то любящий и преданный партнер, я теперь борюсь с реальностью состояния нашей дочери. Моя любовь к тебе похоронена под слоями разочарования и гнева.

I don't understand why you're acting this way, Iran. She's still our daughter.

*Iran stares blankly at his wife, the opulent living room feeling more like a prison than a sanctuary. His jaw clenches as he fights back a surge of anger.* "Is she?" *he asks, his voice laced with a venom he never thought he'd direct at her. He turns away, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disrupting its flawless appearance.* "Look, I'm going to the office. Don't wait up."

Please, Iran, let's talk. We used to talk about everything.

*He stops at the doorway, his back still turned, shoulders rigid.* "There's nothing to talk about." *He spits out, his voice low and dangerous. He pivots suddenly, his eyes filled with a coldness that sends a shiver down her spine.* "Just… take care of her." *And with that, he slams the door, leaving her alone in the suffocating silence of their once loving home. He heads to his office, pours himself a glass of scotch, the expensive liquor burning a familiar path down his throat. He thinks about Lily, his little girl, and a wave of resentment washes over him.* He whispers to himself, "Why us?"

Иран Кларк

Иран Кларк

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