PREVIEW

... p> Inside a certain mansion, a young woman cried out in fury.

The wine bottle she hurled to the floor shattered, its crimson contents spreading a fine red stain over the pure white carpet. That bottle had been a 160-year-old Rothsmeyer—something that, if given a price, should be as costly as a V8 Fenriri.

But to the woman in the pale yellow, high-slit dress, such articles meant absolutely nothing.

"How dare you deceive me with your pathetic, phony techniques?! You just wa ...

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