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Breathing hard, skin flushed, heart hammering, the alarm still screaming, Mrs. Didn’t remember this room, either, because this wasn’t the stone chamber from the other nights. The conversation from the bookshop bench playing on a loop: love is weakness. It was that she’d been a lonely child in a palace that needed her to be someone she wasn’t, raised by a king too guilty to love her and a queen too broken to try.