Meanwhile in a bar,Smith sat in the corner booth of the private lounge, nursing a glass of whiskey that had long since warmed in his hand. The television above the bar played silently, but the images were clear enough—May, radiant and worn, holding her newborn daughter with cameras flashing all around her. Somewhere beside her, John Bells hovered protectively, stoic as ever. Smith stared at the screen like it had personally offended him. The bartender said something, but Smith waved him off. He had come here to be invisible, to disappear into the soft leather and dim light of the one place where nobody cared who you used to be. But the world had a way of crawling back, reminding him—every headline, every article, every damn social media comment—that he’d been replaced. Not just by any man, but by that man. John Bells. And not just replaced—humiliated. Dismissed. “She used you up,” a voice said, smooth as silk and twice as poisonous. Smith didn’t need to turn. He didn’t knew who i
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