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... p> On the coffee table, a small fan whirred, but with the doors and windows of the dressing room tightly shut, not a single cool breeze entered, and the fan merely stirred the stagnant hot air in vain.
The scent of whiskey mixed with perfume, sweat, and hormones—although they weren’t gasoline, gunpowder, or explosive shells.
They could still ignite the air, making the room even hotter and more stifling.
"How do you feel?"
Slowly rising to her feet, Beyonce flashed ...
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