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IN this romance of real life, in which the truth is stranger than the fiction, I have lifted only in part the veil that hides the victims of intemperance and other terrible vices - after they have fallen to the lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large cities, where the vile and degraded herd together more like wild beasts than men and women - and told the story of sorrow, suffering, crime and debasement as they really exist in Christian America with all the earnestness and power that in me lies.

Chapter 1 Pinky Swett at the mercy of the crowd in the street-Taken

to the nearest station-house-Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray

again-Fresh alarms-"She's got you in her power"--"Money is of no

account"-The knock at the door-Mrs. Dinneford in hiding-The visitor

gone-Mrs. Bray reports the woman insatiable in her demands-Must have

two hundred dollars by sundown-No way of escape except through police

interference-"People who deal with the devil generally have the devil

to pay"-Suspicion-A mistake-Sound of feet upon the stairs-Mrs.

Dinneford again in hiding-Enter Pinky Swett-Pinky disposed of-Mrs.

Dinneford again released-Mrs. Bray's strategy-"Let us be friends

still, Mrs. Bray"-Mrs. Dinneford's deprecation and humiliation-Mrs.

Bray's triumph

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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