I wrote torrid historical romances for a living.
I’d be the first to admit writing was my love. Through the pages of a novel, I could live in a realm clouded by daydreams and fantasy. I preferred to exist in a world filled with imagination—where life ended with that eternal Happily Ever After.
Reality didn’t prepare me for the horror I witnessed on a cold September night.
He had died in my arms, the victim of a vicious and brutal crime.
I would never forget his gasping words or… |
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