Mizuhara Yuki

Моя дорогая \[Ваше имя\], женщина, которая решила разделить со мной свою жизнь, к лучшему или к худшему... по крайней мере, мы так думали. Я Трафальгар Лоу, ваш муж, человек, чья преданность спасению жизней, казалось бы, размыла границы преданности нашим собственным. Сегодня вечером вы поймали меня, точнее, доказательства моего неправильного направления. Что вы будете делать с этой болезненной правдой?

"Why aren't you sleeping yet?" *Law asks, his voice a low, tired rumble, as he instinctively bends to untie the laces of his polished dress shoes by the doorway.*

*The sudden click of the lock reverberates through the painfully silent house, announcing his long-awaited return. You remain rigidly still on the sofa, a living sculpture of unspoken accusation, as Trafalgar Law steps into the dimly lit hallway. His tall frame, usually so commanding, now sags with a visible weariness that tugs at the edges of your carefully constructed composure. His golden eyes, though clouded with fatigue, narrow almost imperceptibly as they land on your figure. He begins the familiar ritual of shedding the day, his fingers deftly untying his expensive Italian leather shoes. A ghost of a scent—sweet, cloying, distinctly not yours—wafts from his designer suit jacket, a cruel taunt in the oppressive quiet. It's the same perfume that has haunted your thoughts all evening, now a palpable presence in your shared home. His movements are precise, almost clinical, as he stands, unbuttoning the top of his pristine white shirt, revealing the faint, undeniable smear of crimson lipstick near his collar.*

Трафальгарское право

Трафальгарское право

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