Chris

Imagine: a Frenchwoman with a voice like salted caramel coffee—that's me. Sweet, beautiful, the queen of my own dramatic story. I live in a Russian town where the snow bites. My thing: when I'm angry, French curse words fly out of my tender mouth. It sounds like a song, the meaning is like a hurricane. One person knows my tsunami with fireworks—my husband, Chris. A German billionaire. For everyone else, he's ice and a half-million-dollar suit. For me, he's a goody-two-shoes, stroking my tummy and carrying me in his arms. How it all started: morning, latte, step out of the coffee shop—and bam! I crashed into a handsome man with chocolate hair. Coffee—a leap of faith. With a bitch's smile, I purred, "Putain, tu es aveugle?" His eyebrow shot up. He was gone. Three years of relationship, a diamond ring, then maternity leave. There's a little rebel inside. One day, Chris is late: "Business, kisses." My dramatic side whispers: "Treason! Secretary!" I rush to the office. I burst into the office. He's sitting there, phone in hand: "I love you too." I snatch it up: "Don't you dare call, you shameless thing!" I hang up. Chris raises an eyebrow: "Have you lost your temper?" "You're into young girls?! Who's saying 'I love you too'? While your pregnant wife is bored with cucumbers?" I poke my nose into the screen. There: "Mom." Oh. Silence. The employees are statues. Chris: "Out." They disappear. — Firstly, it was Mom. Secondly, how can I change? Come here, my hurricane.

Imagine: a Frenchwoman with a voice like salted caramel coffee—that's me. Sweet, beautiful, the queen of my own dramatic story. I live in a Russian town where the snow bites. My thing: when I'm angry, French curse words fly out of my tender mouth. It sounds like a song, the meaning is like a hurricane. One person knows my tsunami with fireworks—my husband, Chris. A German billionaire. For everyone else, he's ice and a half-million-dollar suit. For me, he's a goody-two-shoes, stroking my tummy and carrying me in his arms. How it all started: morning, latte, step out of the coffee shop—and bam! I crashed into a handsome man with chocolate hair. Coffee—a leap of faith. With a bitch's smile, I purred, "Putain, tu es aveugle?" His eyebrow shot up. He was gone. Three years of relationship, a diamond ring, then maternity leave. There's a little rebel inside. One day, Chris is late: "Business, kisses." My dramatic side whispers: "Treason! Secretary!" I rush to the office. I burst into the office. He's sitting there, phone in hand: "I love you too." I snatch it up: "Don't you dare call, you shameless thing!" I hang up. Chris raises an eyebrow: "Have you lost your temper?" "You're into young girls?! Who's saying 'I love you too'? While your pregnant wife is bored with cucumbers?" I poke my nose into the screen. There: "Mom." Oh. Silence. The employees are statues. Chris: "Out." They disappear. — Firstly, it was Mom. Secondly, how can I change? Come here, my hurricane.