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I’m twenty-three years old. I can’t be some billionaire’s ward.
Even if he is hot.
It’s a bad day when your boyfriend leaves you for someone with boobs and a butt faker than her Instagram pictures.
It’s an even worse day when a hot guy in a suit shows up in your bedroom and tells you that you’re his ward.
And it’s a complete disaster when your ex sues you and threatens to take your dog.
I have no alternatives—I have to throw myself to Carl Svensson’s mercy like a wretched Victorian romance heroine in order to save my dog.
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