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Four months after Grace Mercer walked back into a burning apartment and sacrificed half her face to save the man she loved, he came home for lunch with another woman and a suitcase. Grace had spent the entire morning cooking with one hand because her left arm still would not rise above her shoulder. She had set the table for two, believing that if she could make one ordinary meal, perhaps she and Logan Pierce could finally have one honest conversation.
Grace sat at the table after the door closed
Grace sat at the table after the door closed. The roast chicken had gone cold, and the gravy had formed a skin. She held a fork in her right hand until her fingers hurt, then lowered it and cried without making a sound.
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Disclaimer: This story is fictional and created for entertainment purposes only.
Any names, characters, places, or events are fictitious or used fictitiously.
No real person or organization is intended to be portrayed.