The Faded Bouquet
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Institute smelled of roasted pheasant and old dust, a pungent mixture that Clara Vance had learned to associate with the specific, metallic taste of her own ambition. She stood near the pillar, holding a glass of champagne she had not sipped, watching Director Vane move through the crowd with the easy, predatory grace of a man who had never been told no. Clara...
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