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Three days before the wedding, I met Isabella.
I was in the glass conservatory in the west wing of the estate, having afternoon tea and finalizing details with the wedding planner—the two-thousand-person guest list, the security arrangements, the menu, and my two-hundred-thousand-dollar custom gown.
Maria—my maid, a sweet-faced Italian girl—rushed in, looking flustered.
"Ma'am," she whispered. "There's a woman here to see you. She says… she's Mr. Dante's fiancée."
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