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... the receptionist’s voice behind me, suddenly soft and desperate, begging for forgiveness. But I didn’t care anymore.

If I had really been poor—if my father wasn’t some big shot—she would’ve crushed me with her heels and walked away like I was trash.

She and everyone else would’ve looked down on me like I didn’t matter. That’s just how people are. Only nice to you when you have something they want. When you’re powerless? They act like you’re invisible. Or worse, like you’re disgus ...

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