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... n were you married, but closed it again, remembering her identity.
When the silence threatened to become awkward, Isolde seemed to understand. She set her brush down on the edge of the palette and sighed, a small, wistful sound.
"He is not my husband yet," she clarified gently. "He is the one I was fated to."
Ronan’s surprise deepened.
Isolde looked back at the painting, gaze softening.
"Unfortunately," she continued, voice quieter now, talking more to her ...
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