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“Sir, I found your son beside the dumpster outside your mansion,” a soaking wet little girl said as she handed over a crying baby wrapped in a black trash bag. The billionaire, declared sterile twelve years earlier, didn’t panic. He stared into the child’s eyes and asked, “Who sent you here to play this sick game?” The little girl pointed a trembling finger at the top of the grand staircase, whispering, “The lady who told us to throw him away.”

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she was back in the freezing textile warehouse, surrounded by rats and shadows. I would find her hiding bread and dry cereal under her mattress, her survival instincts refusing to believe that the abundance of the manor was permanent. Jocelyn, though medically cleared, lived in a state of hyper-vigilant paranoia. A sudden knock at the door, a car backfiring continue reading …

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