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... hanged, bathed, moved through the rituals of morning like clockwork, but her mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the night before.
Francois.
The warmth of his voice still lingered behind her ear. That near-touch, that look, not pity, not strategy, but something dangerously close to recognition.
She stood at her vanity, running a brush through her hair with mechanical efficiency. The reflection in the glass didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. And when she finally met her own eyes, ...
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