“Oh, Mr. Andrew Michaels, tut-tut, now. Ivanna Kingston was nowhere near that tragic fire. Question the realtor or anyone else for that matter. And of course, we know Ivy Wells doesn’t exist, much like Tytan and Andrew. But it is lovely when life hands us visual metaphors. Your memories went up in smoke, just like mine. It burns a little, doesn’t it? Although, you’re all so fond of smoke and mirrors, it probably feels like home anyway.” “Fuck, Ivy.” He sighs, and I hear the agony again, but like his lack of explanation, my empathy isn’t there. “You don’t sound like you. I’m worried.” “Don’t
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