PREVIEW
... lighting—crates stacked like drunk Jenga towers, bubble wrap exploding across the floor like someone had murdered a dozen giant condoms, and Celeste Dubois standing dead center of it all, fingers twitching toward the phantom pack of cigarettes she’d quit six months ago.
Three days until the opening. Three days until the auction that would either launch her or bury her in a market that ate unknowns for breakfast and spat out their bones with tasting note ...
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