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a Harri
bourbon and sharp win
ng skyline of Chicago mocking me through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Don of the Chicago Outf
rity, "that hypocrite from the slums who desperately wants to climb the ladder, hande
eeks. Barrett Bradshaw, the man I had vo
ike a prize he had won, but rather like a stolen possession he was finally reclaiming. When his we
hammering against my ri
. It had been ten days since I woke up in this timeline, yet the phantom touch of the Don still burned on my skin. That ni
thoughts. My assistant stepped in,
..." She swallowed hard. "Karly's maid snatched the velvet box right out of
, letting her clasp a simple, inferior s
eady waiting. The heavy steel door of the family vault loomed behind her. Pinned to the collar of her d
ed, her eyes flashing with a venomous, knowing lig
ast ten days, the orchestrated "accidental" meeting with Barrett at the charity gala. She remembered the
walking past her. "Let's see if
igars. Elia Harrison, the Matriarch of our family, sat in her velvet armchair with the rigid posture of a queen holding court. She looked at Barret
n the corner to the servants by the door, knew why he was he
thless opportunist beneath. Beside him, his family l
walls. "Mr. Barrett Bradshaw formally requests the honor of a union with yo
owed was absolute, de
arrogance. But I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes lowered, hiding the pr
ask of absolute, glacial fury. The blatant disregard for tradition, the public humiliation of the main branch-it was an unfor
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