The Wistful Saga
The banquet hall smelled of stale wine and burnt sugar, a cloying sweetness that stuck to the back of Clara’s throat. She stood by the punch bowl, watching her husband, Mark, laugh with the department head, his face flushed with a confidence that felt borrowed. Clara needed tenure. She needed it to save the marriage, to prove she was not the fragile, dependent woman Mark claimed she was in...
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