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“Of course I am,” she said. “I’m a Sterling.”
For a heartbeat, the word didn’t taste like poison.
It tasted like possibility.
Somewhere far below, a car horn honked. Laughter floated up from the gala. The city pulsed around us, alive and indifferent and full of strangers.
I thought of Catherine’s letter, of Curtis’s sneer, of Arthur’s careful codicil.
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