Diary of a Daring Duchess

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Diary of a Daring Duchess

The morning sun cast long, accusatory fingers across my ducal estate, a sprawling monument to a life I no longer recognized. My name, Anissa, felt like a borrowed garment, ill-fitting and heavy with expectation. Yesterday’s rebellion was a mere whisper, a clandestine meeting in the rose garden that left my pulse thrumming with illicit potential. He was no titled gentleman, but a man with dirt under his nails and a directness that shattered my gilded cage. The memory of his calloused hand brushing mine sent a jolt through my carefully composed existence, a delicious tremor of defiance. I could still smell the damp earth and the faint, wild scent of him clinging to my thoughts. Every polite inquiry from my lady’s maid, Kate, felt like an interrogation, her watchful eyes seeming to see the secret blooming within me. The weight of my lineage, of the “Daring Duchess” persona the ton so adored, now felt like a chain I was desperate to break. I knew then, with a terrifying and thrilling certainty, that my carefully scripted future was a lie I would no longer live. The real story, my true diary, was about to be written not in ink, but in the bold, unapologetic strokes of my own choosing.

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