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his problems vanish. I built his empire in Port Sterling, brick by bloody brick, on the p
hloe Miller, a socialite. He called me a mere "tool," "not wife material," unfit for his meticulous
read from his journal, twisting every one of my life-threatening missions into romantic backdrops for her. Hi
y reality, turning my devotion into a weapon against me? The shock
when it decided to carve its own destiny. I picked up my burner phone and called
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