Lizbeth could have Leo.
Breena stepped into the diminutive washroom. Off came her clothing: the black slacks, the tunic sweater, the cotton underwear. When she was naked, she inspected the body her husband had viewed hundreds of times. Seven years, seven pounds.
Nothing to complain about, Leo, damn you.
So, what had he wanted? A woman without flaws? With youth?
Lizbeth had neither.
But she can have kids.
God. How could she? How could her own sister betray her? Leo, Breena could almost forgive. Almost. But her sister? A woman whose unconditional—
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