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inst the sudden influx of freezing air, expecting the suffocating burn of salt water. Her hands flew to her throa
re was
soft, expensive weav
kaleidoscope of blurred lights and shadows, b
ng against steel pylons; it was the muffled thrum of a bass line from a distant ballroo
len or blue. Her manicure was perfect-a soft, i
ing with the stone balustrade. The cold bite of the snow-covered stone again
ent crash. The headlines. The viral videos. The sneer on Prince Clement's face. The sign
pulled her phone from her clutch with trembling fingers.
mber
year
night of the Winter Chalet Gala. The night her li
it was an inferno, chemical and cloying, spreading through her veins like liquid
ew thi
cham
twenty minutes ago. "Just
ere, a "homeless" man, planted by the tabloids and paid for by someone she trusted, had grabbed her. The ph
r taste of blood flooded her mouth, a grounding anchor ag
la. Shadows moved behind the sheer curtains. She saw the glint of a camera lens. They were
o
e would not go back in there. Going back meant death. It meant the slo
ide of the balcony. Below lay a drop that would break legs. To the left, s
oyal
tonight, occupied by the one man whose power ec
natius
on. Her skin felt too tight for her body. The cold air, which should h
re soles, a shocking, necessary pain. She grabbed
sound of the latch clicking on the balco
all its own. Her muscles screamed in protest, weakened by the poison coursing through her. The stone was slick with ice beneath her trembling hands. She swung one leg over the abyss, t
God she thought had aban
ckening lurch of gravity reclaiming

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