The Probability of a Rose
The penthouse of the Chrysler Building was a cathedral of glass and gold, overlooking a New York that pulsed like a neon heart. Julian sat at the grand piano, but he wasn't playing. He was staring at a series of equations scribbled across the ivory keys. "The distribution is almost perfect, Clara," he murmured. Clara stood behind him, her silk dress shimmering like oil on water. She was a...
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