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... gaze lingered on the wheelchair, a flicker of something—surprise? pity? amusement?—crossing her face before she schooled her features into a mask of polite interest.

"My, my," she drawled, her voice a honeyed poison. "How the mighty have fallen. Tell me, Damien, is this a new fashion statement? Or perhaps a desperate bid for sympathy?"

Damien’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained level when he spoke. "Elena. Still hiding behind false smiles and cheap perfume, I see. Some things ...

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