Fatal Attraction
Marianne, we’re going home!
I plead, I beg, but no one moves. John Smith, arms crossed, remains impassive. Auracio climbs into the car, pulls me by the arm, lifts me with insulting ease.
— Let go of me, you filthy brute! Help!
I struggle, furious, screaming, but he doesn’t weaken. He walks calmly towards the private jet, as if he’s carrying a limp doll.
— Mr. Ferrari, please, she doesn’t want to leave, find common ground…
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