Saturday morning arrived with bright, crystalline autumn sunshine pouring through the clerestory windows of the Hamptons estate. Down in the sun-drenched kitchen, the aroma of freshly ground dark roast coffee and toasted sourdough filled the air. Clara sat at the white marble breakfast island in an oversized charcoal sweater belonging to Julian and soft flannel shorts, her bare legs tucked under her on the barstool. Her encrypted laptop was open,…
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