Twenty-four hours before our high school reunion, the girl who made my teenage years a living hell dropped a video into the class group chat. In the clip, my seventeen-year-old self—weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds—was locked inside a bathroom stall, sobbing. Taped across the back of my oversized school hoodie was a sheet of lined paper: PIG: DO NOT FEED. The chat notifications exploded instantly. “Holy shit, is she actually coming tomorrow?” “Can the hotel chairs even support that?” “It’s been five years. Has she blown up so big she won’t even fit through the double doors?” Giselle Hayes, our former homecoming queen and my chief tormentor, tagged my handle directly: “Hey Audrey! Everyone is dying to see you. You absolutely have to come, okay?” Within minutes, someone started a pool. Bets were flying on whether I’d have the guts to show up. Giselle threw down ten thousand dollars, betting I’d chicken out. Tyler Cole—the varsity golden boy I’d spent three years secretly loving—jumped in right behind her. “If she actually has the spine to walk through that door, I’ll give her a hug in front of everyone,” he texted. “Consider it my apology for the good old days.” The chat flooded with laughing-crying emojis. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the footage that had fueled five years of my worst recurring nightmares, my knuckles white against my phone. What none of them knew was that I was no longer that two-hundred-pound girl. I was a lean, tailored one-hundred-and-five. And what they definitely didn’t know was that this morning, I had signed a premier talent contract with Apex Media—the exact entertainment powerhouse Giselle had spent the last two years desperately trying to break into. Without a word, I transferred fifty thousand dollars into the pool. I bet on my own arrival. Then, amid the cascade of mocking replies, I sent a single line: “May the best bet win.” 1 The group chat went dead silent for a solid fifteen seconds after my deposit cleared. Then the dam broke. “???” “Wait, did Audrey Campbell just drop fifty grand?” “Where the hell did she get fifty thousand dollars? Did she take out a predatory loan?” “Who gets the pot when she loses? Rule number one: no chargebacks once the bets are locked!” Giselle was the first to type. “Audrey, honey, don’t be reckless,” she wrote, oozing faux-concern. “We’re all just joking around. If money is tight, you should really pull that money back out before you regret it.” She hadn’t changed a bit. Every word she spoke was coated in poison, yet wrapped neatly in the guise of sisterly affection. That was her signature move in high school, too. She was the one who dumped my lunch tray directly into the trash can, covering her mouth in exaggerated dismay: “Oh gosh, Audrey, I’m just trying to save you from yourself. Think of it as free personal training.” She was the one who kicked my gym clothes into the boys’ urinal, forcing me to sit through AP Chemistry in damp, reeking cotton while the entire back row snickered. She was the one who cornered me in the girls’ locker room with three of her friends, forcing me onto a digital scale while she read the numbers into a megaphone. And finally, she was the one who slapped that PIG: DO NOT FEED sign onto my back, inviting the whole hallway to take photos for their Snapchat stories. Now, resurfacing that video wasn’t an accident. It was a calculated reminder to our entire graduating class that no matter how much time had passed, I was still her favorite punchline. I clicked open the betting pool overview. Giselle had put down $10,000 against my appearance. The rest of the class had piled on with another $35,000 in collective doubt. I was the sole bettor on my side, standing alone with my $50,000 wager. I tapped out a calm reply: “Don’t worry about my wallet. I can afford to lose.” Giselle instantly fired back a laughing emoji. “If you say so! I’d just hate for you to end up crying over an empty bank account tomorrow night.” A guy named Derek chimed in: “Come on, Giselle, maybe our girl struck it rich! Skip a few dinners a month, save up five years of grocery money, and boom—fifty grand! Hahaha!” A string of laughing reactions scrolled up my screen. Just as I moved to close the app, a direct message notification slid down from the top of my display. It was Tyler. During those four years of high school, I had loved him with an ache that felt like bruised ribs. When he played basketball, I’d leave cold bottles of his favorite sports drink in his locker. When his chronic gastritis flared up during finals, I’d wake up an hour early every morning to bring him warm, homemade oatmeal. And how had he repaid me? He took the three-page handwritten letter I poured my heart into, pinned it to the bulletin board at the back of the homeroom, and loudly asked the room: “If she tripped and fell on me, do you think the paramedics could resuscitate me, or would I just suffocate under the blubber?” The entire classroom had roared until the desks shook. Now, his DM read: “Are you seriously coming tomorrow?” A second message followed immediately: “Look, we were just stupid kids back then. Nobody meant anything by it. Don’t take the old days so seriously.” I stared at the phrase stupid kids and let out a cold, breathy laugh. It was always so effortless for the abusers. Once they grew up, years of calculated cruelty could simply be filed away under the nostalgic banner of “youthful indiscretion.” “Also,” Tyler added, “when I said in the group that I’d hug you, I was just trying to clear the air. Don’t read into it. I have a girlfriend now.” I typed two words back. “Don’t worry.” Terrified that I might still be pining for him, he immediately sent another warning: “She’s coming with me tomorrow. So just keep your distance and know your place. I don’t want her feeling uncomfortable.” I didn’t bother answering. The doorbell chimed just as I laid my phone face-down on the counter. My manager, Lauren Diaz, swept into the foyer towing two oversized, hard-shell wardrobe trunks. She took one look at my oversized gray lounge set and groaned. “You have a reunion tomorrow night and you’re lounging around like you’re waiting on an Amazon delivery?” She popped the latches on the trunks, revealing a dozen couture gowns that hadn’t yet made their public debut. I glanced over the racks. “These are a bit much for a casual dinner, aren’t they?” Lauren gave me an incredulous look. “Your signing announcement goes live across every major trade publication at eight sharp tomorrow evening. The agency’s private rooftop gala is taking place on the penthouse terrace of The Sovereign Hotel. You honestly thought you were walking in wearing a fleece hoodie?” She pulled out a shimmering silver column dress, held it against my frame, and clicked her tongue. “No. Too sweet.” Rummaging deeper, she drew out a floor-length gown of midnight-black velvet. The silhouette was deceptive—clean, architectural lines that hugged the waist with surgical precision, plunging slightly at the clavicle to reveal an unbroken line of collarbone. “This one,” Lauren declared, eyes sparkling. “Tomorrow night, we are giving your hometown peers a full-blown existential crisis.” I turned toward the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was lean, sharp-featured, and cool-eyed. From two hundred and twenty pounds to one hundred and five. It had taken me five agonizing years of grueling discipline, tear-stained gym towels, and rebuilding my fractured relationship with my own reflection. Nobody in that group chat knew what it took to survive the mirror when you spent your adolescence being taught that your very existence was an eyesore. And none of them knew that Giselle Hayes—who had auditioned three separate times for Apex Talent’s commercial division and failed to make it past the first round—was about to watch me debut with the agency’s highest-tier talent contract. Lauren thrust an itinerary into my hands. “Contract signing at ten in the morning. Final tailoring at two. You arrive at The Sovereign at seven. At eight sharp, the global press release drops.” I looked down at the schedule. My class reunion was on the third floor. My agency’s celebration was on the penthouse roof. One room was clawing desperately to drag me back into the dirt of my past. The other was waiting to launch me into my future. 2 The next morning, my alarm was drowned out by the relentless buzz of group notifications. Someone had already turned the betting pool into a meme. A cartoon pig standing in front of a revolving door, captioned: Audrey Campbell betting she can squeeze through the lobby. The replies were a cesspool of recycled high school humor. “If she hit three hundred pounds, does that count as a fire hazard?” “Does The Sovereign have a freight elevator? Let’s not break the hydraulic cables, guys.” “Tyler, start writing your will before that hug.” Tyler finally made an appearance in the thread. “Cut it out. I promised a polite handshake-level hug, nothing more. My girlfriend is coming, so Audrey knows better than to get weird.” Giselle jumped in instantly, tagging me again. “Audrey, please don’t overthink it! Tyler just feels guilty about how much you crushed on him back then. He’s just trying to be sweet.” With one sentence, she dragged my most humiliating adolescent secret back into the open, feeding it to the pack for cheap entertainment. A second later, she posted a photo. It was an old, faded navy-and-white school tracksuit—wide enough to look like a canvas tent. Taped across the shoulders was the exact yellowed slip of paper: PIG: DO NOT FEED. Resting right beside it on her kitchen counter was a white digital bathroom scale. Giselle’s caption read: “Look what I found in my attic! Audrey, why don’t you slip into your old uniform tonight for old times’ sake? We can even weigh in to see how much progress you’ve made!” The chat erupted in enthusiastic praise. Someone posted a GIF of a prize hog stepping onto a livestock scale. I stared at the screen, my fingertips going ice-cold. Five years ago, they had shoved me onto the podium in the auditorium. Giselle had held a bullhorn to my ear, leading the entire senior class in a rhythmic chant: “Two-hundred-twenty! Set the record! Two-hundred-twenty!” When I broke down and tried to run, Tyler had stuck his sneaker out, tripping me flat onto the linoleum. As I scrambled to get up, he had laughed: “Take it easy, big girl, you’re shaking the foundation.” And now, they wanted an encore. My phone rang. The screen displayed Giselle’s name. I hit answer. “Are you actually coming?” Her voice over the receiver had dropped the sugary warmth from the chat; it was flat, sharp, and dripping with condescension. “Audrey, I’m just giving you a heads-up. Tyler’s girlfriend is a professional contemporary dancer. Her waist is literally smaller than your thigh used to be.” I kept my tone steady. “Did you bring that tracksuit just for tonight?” “Of course,” she chuckled. “Every party needs a little entertainment. You were always the best sport about making everyone laugh back then. Why change a good thing?” A slow, cold smile touched my lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.” There was a slight hesitation on the other end. “Great. Just wear something with an elastic waistband so you don’t snap the dining chairs. Those banquet rentals aren’t cheap.” She hung up. I tapped my screen, saving the audio file from the automatic call recorder on my phone. Right on cue, Lauren pushed through the door of my dressing room, draping the black velvet gown over my arm and handing me an iPad. On the screen was the scheduled press release scheduled for Apex’s official channels: Apex Talent Group Welcomes Audrey Campbell. The preview image showed me in the sleek, minimalist gown, eyes sharp and unreadable against the city skyline. Publish time: 8:00 PM EST. The reunion was set to start at 7:30 PM. Lauren glanced at the photo of the tracksuit in my open group chat and scoffed in disgust. “They’re really sitting there expecting a broken, two-hundred-pound girl to walk in?” I closed the chat and took the dress from her hands. “Let them wait.” Thirty minutes. That would be just enough time for them to say every single vile thing they had prepared. 3 At ten that morning, I sat in the executive boardroom at Apex Media. When the final signature was inked, Lauren slid the countersigned contract into a leather folder and handed it to me. “Tier-1 breakout contract,” she said. “The agency hasn’t given one of these to a newcomer in three years. Once this goes live at eight, half the town is going to try to ride your coattails.” I tucked the folder into my bag. “Including Giselle Hayes?” Lauren let out a sharp laugh. “Giselle? She couldn’t even make it past the preliminary casting tape for a seasonal commercial. She actually had her father call the VP to ask if she was being blacklisted.” Lauren shook her head. “If she finds out you took the flagship slot, she’s going to combust on the spot.” My phone buzzed against the mahogany table. Giselle had just posted a picture of the private dining room at The Sovereign. My old gym uniform was hung proudly on the wall like a hunting trophy. Directly underneath it sat the digital scale and two banquet chairs pushed tightly together. Taped across the chair backs was another custom sign: RESERVED: AUDREY’S EXTRA-WIDE SEAT. The chat was having a field day. “Giselle, you’re an angel. So thoughtful!” “Are two chairs enough? Should we pull up a third?” “Don’t add another, the venue will charge us for a conference table!” Giselle tagged me: “Audrey, we’ve set everything up for your comfort! Don’t let us down!” I didn’t reply. I simply took a screenshot and saved it to the cloud. What none of those people realized was that tonight’s announcement wasn’t just about my agency signing. Apex was also announcing the lead ensemble for The Long Night—the new psychological thriller helmed by international auteur director Marcus Foster. Last winter, Giselle had spent seven consecutive days camping outside Marcus Foster’s production office in Tribeca, begging for an audition for a background role with three lines of dialogue. She hadn’t even been allowed past the security desk. Meanwhile, Marcus Foster had hand-selected me for the film’s central supporting role. By four in the afternoon, the makeup team had finished my styling. The black velvet dress swept down to my ankles, tailored so cleanly it looked painted onto my skin. When I stepped out from behind the screen, the studio went entirely quiet. The lead stylist blinked, then immediately reached for her camera. “Don’t move. The lighting on your collarbones right now is unreal.” Lauren leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, nodding with cold satisfaction. “Perfect,” Lauren said. “You won’t need to say a single word. Just standing in the doorway is going to shut that room down.” She snapped a high-res still and forwarded it to the PR department. In the frame, I stood in profile against the floor-to-ceiling glass, my waist impossibly narrow, my profile striking and calm. The press copy was finalized below it: Apex Talent Group is thrilled to welcome actress Audrey Campbell to our roster. Campbell is set to star alongside the cast of director Marcus Foster’s upcoming feature, The Long Night. Release time: 8:00 PM. As I reviewed the layout, Tyler sent another private message. “Audrey, are you actually showing up or what? Brianna is already here.” An attached photo popped up. A slender, fair-skinned girl in a designer white mini-dress was leaning against his shoulder, smiling sweetly at the camera. Tyler added: “Brianna is pretty blunt. If she says something sharp tonight, try not to get all sensitive about it.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. I hadn’t even arrived, and he was already manufacturing excuses for his girlfriend’s anticipated cruelty. I ignored the message. Moments later, a short video popped up in the main class chat. Giselle was standing next to the digital scale, holding my old navy tracksuit like a prize. “Once Audrey gets here, we’re doing a mandatory weigh-in,” she announced to the room, beaming. “If she’s heavier than she was senior year, Tyler is officially excused from the hug. We can’t risk any broken ribs!” The camera panned over to Tyler. He had an arm draped lazily around Brianna, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’d appreciate the mercy,” he drawled. Brianna covered her mouth, giggling. “Come on, babe, don’t be mean. She spent three years obsessing over you. Even if she has to crawl up the stairs on all fours, she’s going to show up tonight.” Raucous laughter echoed through the banquet room speakers. I locked my phone, moved the video into the folder containing Giselle’s recorded phone call, and slipped the device into my clutch. Lauren noticed the shift in my posture, her expression turning fierce. “Do you want me to send two of our security guys up there with you?” “No,” I said, reaching for a pair of delicate diamond drop earrings and fastening them into place. “I’ve waited five years for tonight. I want to see the exact look on their faces when they realize who’s standing in front of them.” At 6:50 PM, the driver messaged to let us know the black town car was idling downstairs. Lauren helped me drape a tailored coat over my shoulders. “The rooftop reception starts at 7:50 PM sharp. Don’t let them waste too much of your time.” “I won’t,” I replied, stepping into the elevator. As the polished doors slid shut, another notification lit up my phone. Giselle: “Audrey, your special chair is getting lonely!” I stared at the screen without typing back. Forty minutes left. Let them laugh while they still could. Their time was almost up. 4 At 7:10 PM, the town car pulled up beneath the grand canopy of The Sovereign Hotel. The driver opened my door, and the moment my heels touched the pavement, the hotel’s floor director stepped forward, recognizing me instantly from the agency’s guest manifest. “Ms. Campbell, the penthouse suite and terrace are fully prepped for Apex’s reception,” he said with a respectful nod. “Mr. Foster and your management team are expected upstairs shortly.” I checked the time on my watch. Fifty minutes until the public announcement. “Thank you,” I said smoothly. “I need to make a brief stop on the third floor first to greet some old high school classmates.” The director blinked, momentarily surprised. “Would you like an escort to accompany you down?” “That won’t be necessary.” I walked toward the elevators alone. Before the mirrored doors slid shut, two men in tailored suits in the lobby stopped mid-conversation, turning their heads to watch me pass. One took an instinctive step forward, clearing his throat. “Excuse me—are you with the premiere upstairs?” I offered a polite, closed-lip smile and pressed the button for the third floor. The brass doors sealed shut. My phone continued to vibrate incessantly in my palm. Inside the group chat, someone had just uploaded another live snippet from Private Dining Room B. Around twenty-five people were seated around the mahogany table. My faded tracksuit hung pinned against the wallpaper. The scale sat front and center on the hardwood, flanked by the two bonded chairs with the crude marker sign: RESERVED: AUDREY’S SEAT. A classmate named Brad swung his phone camera toward the double doors. “It’s 7:12 PM! Where’s our guest of honor?” “Did she really just forfeit fifty grand?” “With her current mass, it probably took her twenty minutes just to get from the taxi to the front revolving doors!” Giselle sat at the head of the table, sipping champagne with an expression of practiced, angelic innocence. “Everyone, please stop rushing her,” she scolded gently. “Audrey has always been terribly insecure. She probably made it to the lobby, saw all the beautiful people, and lost her nerve.” She tilted her phone screen toward Tyler. “Hey, golden boy, why don’t you be a gentleman and go down to the parking lot to escort her up?” Brianna immediately tightened her grip on Tyler’s bicep. “Why should my boyfriend play doorman for her? She has two working legs, doesn’t she?” The room dissolved into appreciative chuckles. Tyler adjusted his collar, his expression dismissive. “I gave her an out yesterday. She insisted on showing up. If she’s crying in the lobby right now, that’s on her.” He spoke with total indifference. He had no idea I was already stepping off the elevator twenty feet away. The elevator chimed, and I stepped out onto the plush carpet of the third-floor corridor. A server carrying a tray of flutes stopped in his tracks as I approached. “Good evening, ma’am. Which private suite are you looking for?” I gave him the room number. He hesitated, looking visibly bewildered. “You’re… with the high school reunion party?” “I am.” The server’s gaze flicked nervously toward the heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall. He had clearly already seen the oversized tracksuit and the bathroom scale inside. “They, uh… they seemed to be waiting for someone named Audrey Campbell,” he murmured, unable to hide his confusion. I met his eyes calmly. “They’re waiting for me.” Leaving him frozen in the hallway, I continued forward. My black stilettos made no sound against the thick runner. Through the gap in the double doors, the voices inside carried crisp and clear. Giselle was already calling for the pool to close. “All right, guys, time’s up. If Audrey was actually coming, she’d be here by now.” Derek instantly shouted, “Lock the bets! Lock the bets! Giselle just made an easy ten grand!” “And Tyler gets off scot-free—keeps his dignity and doesn’t have to crush his spine hugging a whale!” Brianna leaned against Tyler’s shoulder, a smug smile curling her lips. “To be honest, even if he did hug her, I wouldn’t have cared. I don’t get jealous over two-hundred-pound charity cases.” Laughter rolled through the private room. Tyler smirked. “I appreciate the pass, babe. I have a presentation at the firm tomorrow; didn’t really want to spend tonight in the ER getting my ribs set.” I stopped just outside the threshold. From inside, someone asked, “So what do we do with the tracksuit and the scale if she doesn’t show?” Giselle laughed lightly. “Oh, they won’t go to waste. As soon as we settle the cash, I’m editing the old bathroom video and posting it on TikTok. The caption will be: The 200-Pound Classmate Who Was Too Cowardly to Show Up. It’ll go viral by midnight.” Tyler hesitated for half a second. “Isn’t that taking it a little far?” Giselle dismissed him with a flick of her manicure. “What’s she going to do about it? She was fat then, she’s fat now. A little online roasting won’t kill her. And if she complains, we’ll just tell everyone it was an inside joke between old friends.” An inside joke. Just like dumping my lunch tray. Just like forcing me onto the scale in the gym. Just like locking me in the bathroom stall. As long as they slapped the label of “a joke” onto their cruelty, they believed they were entitled to walk away clean. I clicked the voice recorder on my phone. Inside, Giselle was leading the room in a loud, synchronized countdown. “Last ten seconds! If she isn’t through that door by zero, her fifty grand belongs to us!” The entire room joined in, pounding on the mahogany table. “Ten!” “Nine!” “Eight!” Tyler’s voice rose above the rest: “Told you so. She was terrified of me in high school. Spent three years leaving food on my desk and couldn’t even look me in the eye.” Brianna giggled. “You think she was planning to profess her undying love to you tonight?” “Probably,” Tyler snorted. “Too bad for her. I don’t run a salvage yard.” Outside, I calmly lifted my hand and gripped the polished brass lever. “Three!” “Two!” “One!” Giselle cheered. The exact fraction of a second the countdown hit zero, I pushed the heavy double doors open. 5 The door swung inward with a soft, heavy click. The laughter died instantly. Twenty-five pairs of eyes turned in unison toward the entryway. The guy seated closest to the door—Brad—froze mid-toast, slowly lowering his glass before scrambling to his feet. “Uh… excuse me, can we help you?” Another guy hastily pulled an empty chair out from the corner. “Did you lose your way, miss? Penthouse reception is up on the roof, but hey—you’re more than welcome to stay down here with us.” The very men who had just been complaining about chair space seconds ago were suddenly practically tripping over themselves to offer me a seat. Someone even moved Giselle’s designer handbag off the velvet armchair. “Sit right here, please.” I didn’t move. My gaze drifted slowly across the room. The two pushed-together dining chairs. The digital scale on the floor. The baggy, faded tracksuit hanging from the picture rail. RESERVED: AUDREY’S EXTRA-WIDE SEAT. A few people noticed where I was looking, and an uncomfortable, awkward silence settled over the room. “Ah… that’s just an inside joke between some old high school buddies,” Brad stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “The person we’re waiting for hasn’t arrived yet. Don’t mind that.” A faint, humorless smile touched my lips. So they did know it was shameful. They were only brave enough to display their cruelty when the target wasn’t someone they wanted to impress. In the center of the plush booth, Tyler had completely straightened his spine. From the second I stepped through the door, his eyes hadn’t left me. Brianna clearly felt the shift in his attention; her hand gripped his bicep so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Do you know her?” she hissed under her breath. “No,” Tyler murmured, but he was already standing up, smoothing the lapels of his blazer. His voice was dropped into a lower, deliberately charming register. “This is a private class reunion. Are you sure you have the right room?” I met his gaze in silence. Back in high school, I had stood outside his homeroom door every single morning with breakfast, trembling with nerves. He had treated me like a ghost, embarrassed to be seen breathing the same air. Now, I was standing five feet in front of him. And he had no idea who I was. Giselle was sizing me up from across the table, the smile on her face stiffening by the second. She could hear the whispered side-comments breaking out among the men: “Who is that? She looks like a runway model.” “She completely blows Giselle out of the water.” “Are you kidding? They’re not even in the same league.” Giselle’s manicured fingers tightened around her champagne flute until the glass creaked. Forcing a tight, brittle smile, she spoke up: “Did you go to Oakridge High? I don’t seem to recall you in our class. Or are you part of the hotel’s VIP event staff?” She leaned hard on the words event staff, desperate to reassert her dominance. I gave no answer. I simply stepped further into the room, my heels clicking deliberately against the parquet floor. Every head tracked my movement. One of the guys quickly tucked in his shirt; Derek, who had led the chorus of “freight elevator” jokes earlier, pushed a fresh glass of wine toward me. “Let me pour you a drink, gorgeous. I’m Derek, class of 2019.” I ignored the glass entirely. Instead, I walked straight up to the two chairs pushed together in the center of the room. Giselle let out a nervous, mocking laugh. “Oh, you can’t sit there! That’s reserved for an old classmate of ours. She has a… very unique frame. One chair usually doesn’t hold her.” A couple of people offered weak, nervous chuckles. Brianna looked me up and down, her lips curling into a sour line. “A girl with your figure probably wouldn’t understand. Some people eat enough for three families in one sitting.” Tyler shot his girlfriend a sharp glare. “Brianna, drop it.” Brianna’s face flushed red with indignation. “Why are you defending Audrey all of a sudden?” “I’m not defending anyone,” Tyler snapped quickly, clearly embarrassed. “I just don’t think we need to air our dirty laundry in front of a guest.” A guest. Slowly, deliberately, I reached up and unbuttoned the tailored coat draped over my shoulders, letting it slide off my arms to rest over the back of the double chairs. The midnight-black velvet gown was fully revealed. The clean lines hugged my waist with absolute precision, accentuating an unbroken, elegant silhouette. The entire banquet room sucked in a collective breath. Tyler’s pupils dilated, his gaze locking onto me with an unmistakable, hungry intensity. He took half a step forward. “What’s your name?” he asked softly. I let my eyes sweep from the oversized tracksuit on the wall, past the scale, and finally settled on the stunned faces around the table. “It seems none of you recognize me,” I said, my voice cutting through the room with quiet, crystal-clear authority. I lifted my chin. “Allow me to reintroduce myself.” “My name is Audrey Campbell.”
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