The Golden Myth
The roasted lamb smelled of rosemary and old money, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes of the manor house like a stain. Elias stood at the center of the reception, his cufflinks tight against his wrist to hide the tremor in his left hand. He was fifty-two, and the body that had spent twenty years restoring the peeling paint and rotting joists of Ashworth Hall was now a traitor, betraying...
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