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cheek, still searching for the man she had married. Still looking for some flicker of horror, regret, shame. Anything.
But Preston wouldn’t even meet her eyes.
Beatatrice shoved Vivian toward the bed, where a gold pen waited beside the divorce documents like a weapon.
“Sign,” she snapped. “Now. Or I’ll make you wish you had.”
Vivian’s hands trembled as continue reading …
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