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... e slowly, the taste dry and bitter—just how I liked it. The door creaked open, and my eyes narrowed as she stepped in. Abigail Bardot. Draped in designer elegance and high heels that clicked like hollow confidence.

She tried to hold her head high, but her presence screamed insecurity masked in perfume and diamonds.

"Thank you, Ms. Vasilyev, for meeting me here," she said with that rehearsed smile of hers. The kind meant for press conferences and red carpets. Not for me.

I ...

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