The air in Manhattan during the summer of 1924 tasted of gin and desperation. Clara moved through the smoke of the 'Blue Note' like a ghost in a sequined dress, her voice a sultry velvet that could make a man forget his name or his debts.
She had once been the darling of a different world—the secret muse of Leo Sterling, a man whose ambition was a skyscraper that blocked out the sun. Seven years ago, in a small apartment in Brooklyn, Leo had handed her a stack of bills and a ticket to Chicago. "You're a beautiful distraction, Clara," he had said, his eyes already scanning the horizon for a more profitable union. "But I can't...
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