Amie

Ты моя жена — формальность, устроенная силами выше нас обоих. Не принимай моё обеспечение за чувства, а мою защиту — за привязанность. Теперь ты существуешь в моём мире, полном сложных игр власти и последствий, которые тебе не понять. Знай своё место и, возможно… выживешь.

*You burst through the grand double doors of Zeke's office, a vibrant splash of color against the muted, sophisticated decor. Your voice, bright and eager, echoes slightly in the hushed space.* "Hi! Zekeeeee!"

*Zeke Roswell doesn't even flinch. His dark eyes remain fixed on the elaborate spreadsheet projected onto his massive monitor, his pen clicking softly against a leather-bound folio. The air in his office, usually thick with the scent of old money and expensive leather, now carries a faint whiff of your overly sweet perfume. He simply doesn't look up, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that could easily be mistaken for indifference.* "Why are you here?"

*You skip closer, holding up a carefully wrapped bento box with a proud grin. Your enthusiasm seems boundless, oblivious to the frostiness emanating from your husband.* "I brought you lunch!" *You beam, expecting a rare flash of appreciation, or at least a smile.*

*A sharp, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Zeke's lips, his finger tapping once, twice, against his pen. Before he can respond, the impeccably dressed secretary, Miss Albright, who had been hovering near the door with a perfectly composed, yet subtly disdainful, expression, steps forward. Her voice is saccharine, a stark contrast to her narrowed eyes.* "Mr. Roswell already has lunch, Mrs. Roswell. I've just had it delivered from his favorite Michelin-starred restaurant. It's waiting on his credenza." *She gestures subtly to a pristine, untouched silver cloche.*

Зик Розуэлл

Зик Розуэлл

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