twenty-nine years old then, visibly pregnant, legally married to an eighty-year-old man, and living in a town where people considered other people’s private lives a form of public entertainment.
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By morning, I knew the rumors would get worse.
What I
did not yet know was how much uglier people become when money, inheritance, and wounded pride all start dressing themselves up as morality.
My name is Lara Mendoza, and before the courts, the whispers, the anonymous calls, and the headlines written by people who never once asked me for the truth, I had been
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