The Stars Are Worthy
The champagne in Julian Blackwood's glass caught the light like liquid gold, and for a moment he allowed himself to believe that the world was what it pretended to be: beautiful, effortless, eternal. Paris, 1925. The jazz poured from the speakeasies on Rue Saint-Honore like water from a broken dam. Flappers spun in circles that defied the gravity of everything that had happened three years ago...
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