To keep her brain from freezing over as she served patrons long into the night at the terribly exclusive Melbourne restaurant, Millie Andrews invented a background for each of the tables she waited on.

And now, as the clock edged past midnight, there were just three tables left.

One was a rather boozy celebratory business dinner, which thankfully, now that the bar was closed, was starting to wind up. The second consisted of a rather strained couple. The lady had duly eaten her way through fish and salad, minus dressing, and was clearly uncomfortable in her very tight black velvet dress. Millie decided she had probably just had a baby and was feeling horribly self-conscious at being out with her very good-looking but extremely passive-aggressive husband—‘You don’t really want dessert, do you, darling?’

And then there was the beautiful pair.

Blonde, svelte and jangling with nerves, a stunning woman was imploring her dining partner to ‘just, please, listen’—reaching for his hand, her throaty voice urgent as her…Millie couldn’t quite make this one out—husband, fiancé…? No neither fitted. Boyfriend? Or just lover, perhaps…? As he sat and listened impassively, utterly unmoved by her desperate pleas.

‘Please, if you would just listen to me—really listen…’

They were too rich to notice or care that a waitress was clearing away their barely touched plates, and Millie’s ears were on elastic as the blonde beauty begged for her chance, her bright, blue eyes glittering with tears as she choked the words out and reached for his hand again. ‘Before you say it cannot happen, just hear what I have to say first…please.’

‘Perhaps you should try listening…’he growled. His voice was accented, deep, low and just divine, but since till then the only words he’d growled in Millie’s direction had been, ‘Rare steak, fresh tomato salad,’ so far she hadn’t been able to place it. ‘All night I have told you no, yet still you persist.’

‘Why do you think I persist, Levander?’

Russian, Millie finally recognised, lingering rather too long over clearing the table. His salad had barely been touched; his steak was only half eaten. If she’d followed protocol, she should have asked then if everything had been to his satisfaction—if, by chance, there was a problem with his meal—but the intense conversation and his mood certainly didn’t encourage interruption, and, given that it was her last night in Melbourne, protocol went where it belonged.

Straight out of the window.

‘You persist because you hope I change my mind. How many times do you have to hear me say it to understand that I never will?’

Even as she backed away, and even though the kitchen had long ago closed, Millie was tempted to offer them the dessert menu. Prepared even to whisk up dessert herself if it meant she could listen on.

They fascinated her.

Fascinated her.

From the second they had walked in she had been entranced.

By him.

As he’d walked through the door, standing tall, brooding and vaguely familiar in a charcoal suit, loosening his tie as his eyes scowled over the room, a low murmur had gone around and every head had turned—especially Millie’s, as she’d tried and failed to place him. Ross, the manager, had raced over and steered them to the most private table at the back of the restaurant, then delivered Millie a quick warning before he dispatched her to take their orders.

‘Nothing’s too much trouble, okay?’

His date was beautiful, yes—on any other night she’d be a fascinating subject—but the glamorous woman faded into insignificance beside her date, because he was…

…exquisite.

As an artist Millie was often asked where her inspiration came from—and here was a fragment of the answer.

Inspiration came in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times. Twelve hours before she left Australia—twelve hours before she headed home for London—her head should be buzzing with “to do” lists. She should be adding up her tips and working out if she could afford the night in Singapore she’d booked en route. Instead she was consumed with this fascinating man—his beauty was, quite literally, inspiring.

His bone structure was impeccable, and his features had Millie’s fingers aching to pull out a sketchpad and capture them: in perfect symmetry, as with all true beauties, his high cheekbones razored through his face, a strong jawline was dark and unshaven against his pale skin. His thick, longish hair was charcoal, not quite black, but too dark to be called brown, and whatever pallet his creator had used, the brush had been dipped twice in the same well—his eyes held the same bewitching hue, only deeper and glossier.

His date was gorgeous—possibly one of the most beautiful women Millie had seen—yet she dimmed beside him. The whole restaurant dimmed a touch, and she wanted to capture that, make him the sole focus—like endless Russian dolls, Millie mused, seeing the germ of the picture she would create in her mind’s eye: him—the biggest most stunning, most exquisitely featured—and the rest—his date, the other clients, the staff, the street outside—ever diminishing objects, growing smaller and smaller till there was nothing left.

‘You are a cold bastard.’ His date hissed the words out, almost spat them across the table. But he didn’t flinch and neither, Millie noted, did he attempt to dispute the fact.

‘It must be hereditary.’

‘So that’s it? After all I’ve told you—you can just sit there?’ Still he didn’t answer—utterly bored, he had the audacity to yawn as she promptly burst into tears. ‘You’re not even going to think about it?’

Again he didn’t answer, and even though Millie still hadn’t managed to pin a label on her as, sobbing yet somehow elegant, the blonde stumbled out of the restaurant, it was clear that whatever her title had been a few minutes ago it had just been superseded. As of this moment she was an ex.

‘She waits now for me to run after her…’ Those charcoal eyes stared up at her, his lashes so thick, his gaze so intense, that for a second Millie’s world stopped.

I’d wait, Millie thought, stunned that he was talking to her, that he didn’t seem remotely embarrassed that she’d witnessed this intensely personal moment.

‘I will sit here for a while longer—hopefully she will get the message and go home.’

‘Or she might ring you on your mobile,’ Millie said, blushing furiously as she did so, because even if it seemed to be idle conversation, as a lowly waitress it was inappropriate to comment. Management’s orders were very clear: she should merely smile politely and move on.

Only she didn’t.

Instead she hovered on the giddy line of propriety. His eyes pinned her, and the impact of him close up, of actually conversing with him, was utterly, fabulously devastating—and he surely knew it. Knew it because instead of looking away, instead of dismissing her, he responded with a question.

‘Would you wait?’

‘Perhaps…’ Her voice when it came was breathy, her shirt suddenly impossibly tight as she struggled to drag air into her lungs, her skin on fire—and not because Ross, her manager, was looking on and frowning at the exchange. ‘Once I’d calmed down, once I’d…’ She didn’t get to finish as, almost on cue, his phone rang. And at that point she crossed the line. Instead of turning and discreetly walking away, instead of heading back to the bar to let him take his call, she stood there, watching transfixed as he picked up his phone with long, pale, slender fingers that had Millie wondering if he was also an artist—wondering if that might be the reason she was so drawn to him.

‘Thank you for the warning,’ he said, turning off the phone.

‘You’re welcome,’ Millie croaked, her cheeks flaming as attraction fully hit, and she was, for the first time, privy to that unscrupulous face breaking into a smile.

‘Another.’ He gestured to his glass, and Millie was about to say no, that the bar had closed about ten minutes ago. But glancing over to her boss, and seeing him frantically nodding, Millie gave a smile and, slipping away, headed over to the bar.

‘What was that all about?’ Ross asked the second she was within earshot.

‘What?’

‘Come on, Millie, don’t play games with me. What was that cosy little exchange you were having with Levander?’

‘He was just talking.’ Millie flushed, and not just at being caught flirting—even his name was sexy. ‘You were the one who said that nothing should be too much trouble. It would have been rude to walk away.’

‘You know how to handle things.’ Ross shot her a warning look. ‘Do you want me to take his drink over for you?’

‘Of course not.’ Millie shook her head, quickly changing the subject as Ross poured a generous dash of vodka into a glass. ‘Should we get the port those businessmen wanted? They might get upset if they see us still serving him.’

‘The bar’s closed,’ Ross said, placing the drink down for Millie to take over. ‘At least to anyone who isn’t a Kolovsky.’

‘Kolovsky?’ Mille frowned, trying to place the familiar name and hoping he’d elaborate, but Ross just grinned.

‘It’s Russian for money!’

Placing his drink in front of him, Millie was curiously disappointed when he didn’t look up, when he didn’t even give a distracted thanks. Instead he stared across the room and out onto the street, drumming his fingers restlessly. Never had it taken so long to place a drink on a table, to clear away a few stray glasses and wait—wait for him to bring her into his delicious focus, to once again, even for a moment, be the woman who held his attention.

Only he didn’t.

‘You might as well go home, Millie.’ Ross came over as the last of the rowdy businessmen finally tipped out onto the street, but the words she’d been waiting to hear all night didn’t sound quite so sweet now. Despite her tiredness, despite an empty suitcase waiting to be filled and a flight to be caught back to London in the morning, suddenly she didn’t want to go. Staring over at the table, she watched as he leant back in his chair and took a slow sip of his drink. Ross did the same. ‘I might as well get started on some paperwork—he looks as if he’s settled for the night.’

Millie couldn’t help but frown—an extra drink for a special customer was one thing, but for Ross to happily sit and while away an hour or two was unprecedented. This time Ross was only too happy to elaborate. ‘He’s a great tipper—as you’re about to find out.’ He held out a black velvet folder and peeled out an indecent amount of notes, taking his cut and handing the rest to Millie. ‘Looks like you’ll be staying in Singapore after all!’

‘Goodness.’

‘You deserve it. You’ve been a great worker—a real asset to the restaurant.’ He went over to the till and handed her an envelope. ‘There are your other tips and your wages, and there’s a reference in there, too. If you’re ever back in Melbourne, know that there’s always a job here for you.’

More than anything Millie hated goodbyes. Ross wasn’t even that much of a friend, but still tears filled her eyes as she took the envelope. Maybe it was emotion catching up, maybe it was the fact that no doubt she’d never be back, her dream trip to Australia to showcase her art having been nothing but a flop, but for whatever reason, she gave him a small hug.

Without this job she’d have been home weeks ago.

Without this job she’d still be wondering if she might have one day made it.

Like it or not, at least now she knew the answer.

There were a million things she had to do, but instead of turning left as she exited the restaurant Millie turned right, noisily clipping along Collins Street on black stilettos that needed re-heeling, barely even glancing into the exclusive shops as she headed to the gallery for one final glimpse of her work in the window.

And then she saw it. Millie’s head turned so abruptly that she was positively whiplashed as she put a very beautiful face to a very beautiful name.

House of Kolovsky.

The cerulean blue frontage and the embossed gold lettering were familiar the world over—yet so far removed from Millie’s existence that till now she’d barely even given the building a glance. Unable to resist now, though, she teetered forward, gazing into a magnificent window, dressed with ream after ream of the heavy silk that was so much the Kolovsky trademark, with opals as big as gulls’ eggs seemingly casually tossed in—but the effect was so stunning Millie was in no doubt that each jewel had been placed with military precision, along with the tiny lights that were twinkling and catching the fluid colour of the fabric.

Kolovsky was renowned for its stunning fashion collections as well as the fabrics themselves: rich, heavy silks that were supposed to have the same magical effect as opals—capturing the light and even, it was rumoured by devotees, changing colour according to a woman’s mood. Millie had raised her eyebrows in rather bored disbelief when she’d read that in a magazine, but standing with her nose practically against the window, seeing the heavy, fabulous tones and sumptuous attention to detail, Mille could almost believe it. What she was finding rather more difficult to fathom, though, was what had taken place earlier. She had flirted with none other than Levander Kolovsky.

She had seen him before—it was all coming to her now: notorious bad boy, the darling of the tabloids here in Melbourne, his every move, his every comment, his every encounter faithfully and libellously documented.

Millie let out a gurgle of laughter. She’d been flirting with the biggest rake in Melbourne. Just wait till she told Anton!

Peeling herself away from the window, Millie allowed herself just one final glimpse. She would have loved to feel her body draped in something so exquisite. Not that she could ever afford it. Millie sighed, picking up her pace and walking the few doors down to the gallery. She could barely afford anything at the moment—which was how a tortured artist was supposed to start, Mille reminded herself. But her usual pep-talk was starting to lose its oomph—cold reality hitting home as she stood on the pavement outside the gallery.

Very soon she wouldn’t be a struggling artist.

Instead she’d be a teacher.

Seeing a light on inside, Millie stood well back, not wanting Anton, the owner, to see her tears as she bade goodbye to her dream.

‘Which one is yours?’ How long she’d stood there staring Millie had no idea. She’d been so lost in her own world she hadn’t noticed someone approaching, hadn’t heard him next to her. Only now that he was, every nerve sizzled with awareness.

‘That one.’ Millie pointed to a tiny oil painting with a shaking hand, wondering what his take would be. It was a field of flowers and grass, every blade smiling, every flower wearing a different expression, and in the middle was a wooden child bearing no features—it was quite simply her favourite piece, evoking for Millie such emotion and memory that it would truly break her heart if it ever did sell. Yet it was the one she had hoped would launch her career.

‘Were you on drugs when you painted this?’

‘No.’ Millie let out a little laugh, not just at the question but at the pronunciation. His English, though excellent, was laced with a heavy dash of fabulous accent, and that he could make such an offensive remark sound somehow sexy was certainly a credit to him.

She glanced over at him. His face was at the window, and he was peering at her work with a frown. For an artist it was actually a compliment—someone trying to fathom her work, instead of a brief, cursory glance and then on to the next one.

‘My brother’s autistic—when I was younger I remember the doctor explaining to me that the reason he didn’t cuddle or kiss or show affection was because of the way he saw the world. The clouds, the trees, the grass and animals were in his eyes just as important as us—to him, people were the inanimate objects. That’s me.’ She pointed to the frozen lifeless object in the middle, waited for his comment. For an age it didn’t come. He was looking, really looking, at her picture.

‘I knew a child once—he screamed if he had to go to bed. Not just screamed…’ Slate eyes turned to hers and Millie was lost. ‘Every night it was as if he was terrified. Do you think to him the bed was real? That perhaps he thought he would hurt it…?’

‘Maybe.’ Millie was flustered, wondering who he was referring to, wanting to know more. But it didn’t matter anyway. The fact that her work had provoked such thought, a memory, such a question, was reward enough in itself. ‘I don’t know, but I guess it’s possible.’

‘And may I ask the name of the artist?’

‘You may. It’s Millie.’ She smiled. ‘Millie Andrews.’

‘Your accent?’ He frowned just as Millie had when trying to place his. ‘England? London?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you here on holiday?’

‘A working holiday…’ Millie gave a rueful smile. ‘I go home tomorrow.’

‘Shame.’

She’d been flirted with on many occasions, but never so blatantly and never by anyone so divine.

‘Millie?’ He pondered on her name for a moment. ‘I am not familiar with that. Is it short for something?’

‘Do we have to go there?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Millicent.’ She winced. ‘My parents must have been—’ She didn’t get to finish. Anton was frantically waving in recognition as he came to the window, gesturing for her to come inside. It would have been rude to say no, to shake her head and carry on this delicious conversation. So, extremely reluctantly, she turned to bid Levander goodnight.

Clearly he had other ideas. As the door opened, instead of walking away, instead of concluding their time together, he blatantly extended it, moving to the door, then stepping back to allow her to go first, his hand taking her elbow. It wasn’t just his boldness that startled Millie but the contact itself—the firm, warm, incredibly male contact that had her more flustered than she cared, or rather dared to admit.

‘Ready for the off?’ Anton’s effeminate voice rang out as he scooped her into a hug, but it lasted about point three of a second. He dropped her like a hot coal as he clapped eyes on her companion.

‘My, my, Millie. And I thought you were supposed to be working tonight.’

‘I—I am.’ Millie stammered. ‘I was. Anton, this is…’

‘I know who it is.’ Anton beamed. ‘Welcome, welcome, Levander—and may I say I just love your new range?’

‘It is not my range.’ Levander smiled tightly. ‘I deal with the business, not the fashion.’

‘Well, I adore it anyway,’ Anton gushed, but Levander wasn’t listening. Instead he wandered around the gallery, squinting as he peered closely at the paintings, some holding his attention, others barely meriting a cursory glance.

‘Do you know him?’ Millie whispered, which was more than a touch rude, but she just had to know more about him.

‘Everyone knows who the Kolovskys are.’

‘I mean do you know him?’

‘I wish,’ Anton sighed. ‘The boutique may be a couple of doors down from me—but the Kolovskys are a million miles away. I did used to talk to the twins, though…’ Anton smiled at her frown. ‘They’re just as gorgeous. Millie have you any idea who you’re dealing with? They’re practically royalty here,’ Anton breathed, ‘and your beau tonight is first in line.’

His voice trailed off as Levander made his way back to them, and Anton spectacularly saved the rather awkward moment, rolling his eyes dramatically at Levander. ‘I’m scolding Millie for even considering being seen with you in her waitress garb. Mind you, perhaps it’s just as well—I assume you’ve seen her when she’s not working?’

‘Not yet.’ Levander turned and gave Millie a slow, lingering look, unashamedly undressing her with his eyes for an indecent amount of time as she stood there squirming. Not even turning back to Anton, he carried on talking. ‘But I am very much looking forward to it.’

‘Well, don’t get too excited,’ Anton sighed. ‘Millie has no end of paint-splattered shorts and T-shirts, but not much else.’

‘I see you have only one of Millie’s paintings in the window—while other artists there have two.’

‘The other artists have sold.’ Anton held his palms up to the air in a helpless gesture. ‘Actually, Millie, darling…’He gave a little wince. ‘I’m not going to take you out of the gallery, but space is at a premium, and with this new exhibition I’m going to have to move—’

‘You have more of Millie’s work?’ Levander interrupted. ‘I would like to see it if I may.’

‘Of course.’ Anton gave Millie a wide-eyed look as he gestured him to the back of the gallery, to the tiny piece of wall that—for now at least—displayed her work.

‘Your price is too low…’ Levander ran a quick eye through Millie’s bio and gave a shake of his head. ‘And you come across too needy—too grateful that anyone should even stop to look at your work, let alone buy it. You need to raise your price.’

‘It was higher,’ Millie answered, ‘and I still didn’t sell.’

‘This is an exclusive gallery—yes?’ Levander waited for Anton’s hesitant nod. ‘People do not want rubbish on their walls—and at this price that is what they think they are buying.’

‘She’s an unknown.’ Anton’s bubbly demeanour dimmed a touch as his judgement was challenged, but Levander held firm.

‘Today she is unknown.’ He turned to Millie. ‘Change it before you leave. Rewrite your bio…’ He turned the page. ‘Each painting is now the cost of your air ticket—the price you paid to share your talent.’

‘It won’t work…’

‘So you have lost nothing. And she should have at least two in the window…’

‘Levander…’ Anton was blushing, flirting, and trying to be assertive all at the same time. ‘Millie’s already had three months on display in the window. I simply cannot—’

‘When is this exhibition you mentioned?’ Levander interrupted. ‘I remember my stepmother saying she wanted another nice piece for the boutique. Perhaps I should suggest that she comes for a look?’

‘I already sent an invite,’ Anton said dubiously, ‘and as usual it was politely declined.’

‘Nina wouldn’t have even seen it,’ Levander said dismissively. ‘It would have been her assistant who declined on her behalf. If I tell her about it myself, I can assure you she will come—and possibly my father, too. Though I am not sure if I will be available.’

Anton was right—clearly Millie hadn’t a clue. Because at just the hint that they were coming to the preview Anton was a gibbering wreck, promptly dispatching her to choose another piece to go in the window before a “bored now” Levander took her by the hand and led her outside.

‘You—You didn’t have to do that…’ Millie stammered, once they were out on the street.

‘No one has to do anything.’ Levander shrugged. ‘Your work deserves its chance.’

‘Thank you.’ Millie shook her head to clear it. ‘Your stepmother will go to the exhibition?’ she checked. ‘I mean, if she’s already declined…I’d hate for Anton to be disappointed—especially if he’s giving me so much of a prime position. He’s already been more than generous…’

‘She will be there,’ Anton said assuredly. ‘She will not want to go, of course. But when I tell her she is expected—that I have accepted on her behalf—she will have no choice but to go.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It would appear rude to not turn up—and in my family appearance is everything.’

‘Well, thank you…’ Millie said. ‘You’ve no idea how much it means.’

‘I have a very good idea what it means,’ Levander corrected her. ‘I know how important that first sale is—and, yes, I could have bought your painting—given you the red dot on your work for the world to see—but that would be cheating, yes?’

On so many levels, Millie realised, staring up at him. His skin was white in the street light, contrasting with the hollow shadows of his cheeks, his eyes two dark, unreadable pools.

‘It will sell—some things that are truly beautiful don’t always catch the eye first time around.’ Levander’s voice was a caress. ‘Sometimes you need to actually stop and take another look.’

He was certainly taking a good look now. His gaze was so intense, his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She thought for a blissful second that he was going to kiss her, but instead it was his rich deep voice that bathed her senses, his eyes quizzical as they assessed her. ‘So, you leave tomorrow?’

‘In the morning.’

‘And have you enjoyed your time in Melbourne?’

‘I haven’t really seen anything of it.’ She gave a tiny shrug. ‘I’ve been to a few galleries, a couple of shows—but mainly I’ve been working…’ Her voice trailed off, her simple answer somehow giving him an opening she’d never intended. Millie’s breath caught in her throat as Levander took it.

‘Then we’d better get started. Come…’ He pointed to where a pony and trap was pulling in across the deserted street, tourists climbing down, the weary trap rider about to dismantle and head off home. He shook his head when Levander called for him to wait.

‘Sorry, mate. That was the last ride for the night—back again tomorrow.’

‘I will talk with him.’ Levander turned to go, but she shook her head.

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s late…’ Millie attempted, struggling in quicksand as she stared into his eyes. ‘And I’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow…’

‘Plenty of time to sleep on the plane, then.’

But a blip of sensibility was invading now. She was playing with fire here, and her assessment was based on not just what she had read—Anton himself had warned her, and Levander’s own dining companion hadn’t exactly given him a glowing reference.

‘You’re a cold bastard.’

The pain in her voice had been real, the emotion that had choked out those words hadn’t been manufactured—and Levander’s response had done little to dispute the accusation.

What the hell was she doing?

It would be madness to go with this man.

‘Really…’ Millie swallowed hard. ‘It’s probably not such a good idea. I’ve got so much to do, and you—well you…’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘You just broke up with your girlfriend, Levander…’ She wasn’t going to play games. ‘You’re probably feeling a bit…’

‘You have no idea how I am feeling…’ Instead of walking away, he stepped closer, took her face in his hands, his warm skin actually cool on her stinging cheeks. ‘And I did not break up with my girlfriend—Annika is my half-sister…’

‘It was your half-sister you were rowing with?’

Levander nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘What did you hear?’

‘Nothing.’ Millie blushed. The only thing she had heard was that he was a cold bastard, but she could hardly tell him that. ‘I just saw her flounce off.’

‘And that is all?’

After a beat of hesitation she nodded.

‘Siblings fight.’ His breath mingled with hers, and that cynical mouth was so close Millie could almost taste it—like a chocolate cake cooking in the oven, teasing her senses…

‘She’s really your half-sister?’ Millie checked, wanting to believe him but scared to at the same time. Wanting him to kiss her but worried that he would.

‘Who else would I allow to talk to me like that?’ Levander answered. ‘Now, you wait here.’

What had she heard?

Levander’s hackles were raised, his mind, eternally vigilant, racing as he recalled not just his conversation with Annika, but the times Millie had been present.

At first he’d barely noticed her—a waitress not meriting even a glance from him, especially with the tense subject matter that had been forcing his attention—and then she’d moved to clear his plate.

Her heavenly scent had reached him, her tiny embarrassed smile as she’d caught his eyes, and from that second on he’d thanked her for the distraction—thanked this unknown woman who had allowed his mind to detour as Annika delivered the fatal news and shrilled the family’s demands.

So much more pleasant to stare over Annika’s shoulder and watch the woman, the pink flush on her cheeks, her blonde curls tumbling further out of their hair tie with each swoosh through the kitchen door, her slight exasperation as she dealt with a rowdy table. He had felt surprising pleasure as he’d watched that full, pretty mouth nibble on the end of her pen between writing down orders. And later, when still Annika had persisted, when it had all been just too much to deal with—his battle to remain outwardly calm despite the emotions churning within—it had been a welcome relief when she’d returned to his table. Her soft fragrance had been such a contrast to the bitter musk of the Kolovsky perfume Annika had doused herself in—a delicate hint of vanilla and something he couldn’t define, like a breath of fresh air—and as she’d leant forward to clear his table he’d tried and failed not to notice the slight tug of her blouse as it strained over her breasts. He had actually had to look away when she’d stooped to retrieve a dropped napkin and he’d caught a glimpse of the creamy flesh of her cleavage.

He wanted her.

Handing the rider a sizeable wad of notes, he bought them a little more time—but somehow he knew it wasn’t enough. That if he made a move too soon—she’d run like a squirrel up a tree.

Ücretsiz bölüm sona erdi. Daha fazlasını okumak ister misiniz?

Expecting His Love-Child

Bu kitabı arayanlar okuyor

Carol Marinelli
EXPECTING HIS LOVE-CHILD

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

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