The Golden Oath
The air in the Grand Hall of the Whitmore Estate tasted of stale champagne and ozone, a metallic tang that coated the back of your throat as you stood amidst the sea of silk and sequins, the golden chandeliers above flickering in a rhythm that seemed less like electricity failing and more like a dying heart trying to keep time with the waltz below. You are Margaret, and you are looking for the...
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