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St. Vincent III

Blue hadn’t moved since she’d spoken to Anya, sat at the dining table. And as some dark figure danced in the corner of her eye, she hoped it would be her maid again. But hoping had never gotten her far.

“Blue?” She turned to meet her father’s voice—though didn’t oblige him the same forced smile she had her maid. She didn’t feel he deserved it quite as much. “I thought you would have been out with Sandra,”

“What are you doing here?” The question sounded about as pointed as she had felt it should. No longer did she entertain the obligation to reign in any bitterness. Fortune had treated her rather cruelly of late. Why should she entertain notions of the male gaze and the so-called etiquette it masqueraded as? As far as she was concerned, the notion of femininity she’d been raised to prize had disappeared when her fiancé had cut open her cheek as one would an a

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