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Chapter one hundred and three: the Bride.
Archibald heaved a sigh of frustration.

The last thing he wanted was to be a villain in Bruce's story. Bruce needed an heir. If he didn't get one, all his hardwork and that of his ancestors would be in vain.

Mr. Archibald shook his head. There was no way he would let that happen.

"Claire," Archibald called out softly and walked towards her like he was about to say words that would convince her to agree with him.

"You have to act like you have not seen me. It's for Bruce's good."

"Tricia? Bruce's good?" Claire scoffed. "I disagree."

Mr. Archibald shrugged. "That's okay if you say so."

"I'm glad you—"

Claire fell to the ground before she could complete the sentence. Mr. Archibald looked at his left hand which he used in giving her a carotid strike slightly below her jaw.

"I hope I don't regret this," he muttered to himself softly.

He looked at the door to the room that was widely opened, rushed to it, slammed it shut and locked it.

He leaned back on the door and heaved a sigh of frust
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