The dawn breaking over the Hudson River was the color of bruised slate and winter sunlight. Elena stood on the clifftop terrace of the Santoro sanctuary in Hudson Heights, clutching a porcelain mug of espresso between two hands. The five-carat Colombian emerald flanked by trapeze-cut diamonds on her ring finger felt cool, heavy, and undeniably real against her skin. For twelve hours, she had allowed herself to exist in an…
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