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Bless His Naive Heart

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“Bless his naive heart,” she whispered into the darkness, a phrase as soft and sharp as a scalpel’s edge. It was an old southern comfort meant to pity the foolish, but she had drained it of all warmth, leaving only the chilling truth. The man who slept down the hall, the man she once called her husband, was a stranger now. His trust was a fragile, gossamer thing that she had watched fray and tear over the months, and he was too innocent to know he was already undone. Now his jugular was cut. 

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