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Chapter Fourteen

When Portia opened her eyes, she was greeted by a beautiful choir of cherubs. They were playing the strings of golden lyres while sitting on fluffy white clouds in a beautiful blue sky.

She mumbled, "Oh, dear Lord." "I'm gone,"

With one hand, she covered her mouth. It might not be the best idea to begin blaspheming at this moment.

The dimples on the cherubs' beautiful cheeks became deeper as they grinned down at her. Her body was most likely lying in a tangle of twisted and broken limbs in the midst of some weed-choked courtyard at Chillingsworth Manor, yet her spirit might be residing on its own cloud in this radiant little bit of paradise. She sighed wistfully, thinking that at least Julian wasn't vulnerable to the bleak finality of death. He probably got to his feet after sending her tumbling to her death, dusted off his coat, and went back to London for a new bottle of port and another round of brag.

She snatched her gaze away from the cherubs because she was suddenly irritated by
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