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As I turned the corner, my footsteps halted mid-step.

Standing a few paces ahead—pristine white dress, posture of a queen, eyes like winter glass—was Isabella Hartgrave.

Evelina’s mother.

And judging by that carefully unreadable expression on her face, she’d heard everything I’d said to Margaret. I flicked my gaze upward—and the familiar shimmer appeared in the corner of my vision:

[Isabella Hartgrave—Affection: 43% (+3%)]

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