Nov. 7, 2024

The Grateful Game: (Thanksgiving Episode 1 of 4) - "Amuse Bouche"

The Grateful Game: (Thanksgiving Episode 1 of 4) - "Amuse Bouche"

In her upscale Chicago restaurant's hidden basement kitchen, pastry chef Maya Chen prepares for her exclusive underground supper club, where the city's elite dine in masks and anonymity reigns. But tonight's preparation is interrupted by news that...

In her upscale Chicago restaurant's hidden basement kitchen, pastry chef Maya Chen prepares for her exclusive underground supper club, where the city's elite dine in masks and anonymity reigns. But tonight's preparation is interrupted by news that notorious restaurant critic Marcus Reid has made a reservation – the same man who destroyed her father's empire. As Maya reflects on her passionate encounter with a mysterious masked stranger at last month's dinner, she realizes her dangerous game of power and pleasure is about to become more complicated. When the man in the wolf mask arrives, Maya must navigate the thin line between revenge and desire, knowing that the critic who ruined her father might be the same man who awakened something dangerous in her soul.

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WEBVTT

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Calaroga Shark Media.

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Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled

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The Grateful Game, Part one. Amuse Boosh.

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Sugar crystallizes at three hundred and twenty degrees fahrenheit. The

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human body burns at three hundred and fifty. I know

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these things because I've flirted with both temperatures, one professionally,

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one personally. Tonight, as I prepare for my Underground supper

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Club's most exclusive event of the year, I'm playing with

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fire again. My name is Maya Chen, and I'm about

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to serve a seven course Thanksgiving dinner to twelve of

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Chicago's most powerful people. They don't know each other's names,

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they don't show their faces, and if anyone asks, this

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dinner never had happened. The basement kitchen of my restaurant,

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Sweet Heat, is my sanctuary. Up above the regular dinner

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service hums along tourists and locals enjoying my innovative Asian

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fusion desserts as the critics call them. Down here in

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my private lab, I create the kind of dishes that

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would make those same critics clutch their pearls or beg

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for more. The Underground Dinners started three years ago. After

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I'd earned my first Michelin star success had felt hollow,

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every dish perfect, every review glowing, every service exactly the same.

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I was suffocating under the weight of expectations, of tradition,

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of being James Chen's daughter. Then came the night I

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served Chicago's most notorious food critic, wearing a blindfold. He'd

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requested it, wanting to experience my food without visual bias,

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watching him surrender to each bite, seeing the way vulnerability

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enhanced his pleasure, Something awakened in me that night. The

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next Underground dinner featured masks for all guests. By the

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third I was wearing one too. Maya Sofia's voice cuts

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through my concentration. He's made a reservation. I don't need

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to ask who she means. Marcus Reid, the man whose

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reviews have closed three Michelin starred restaurants this year alone,

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The critic who single handedly destroyed chef James Chen's empire

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five years ago, my father's empire. When I keep my

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voice steady, the way I learned in culinary school, never

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let them see you sweat. Thanksgiving Week Tuesday night, Sofia's

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dark eyes narrow, you don't seem surprised, I turned back

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to my work, carefully drizzling molten sugar into cold water,

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creating delicate threads that will garnish tonight's dessert.

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Should I be.

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Maya Sofia's fingers brush my should? What aren't you telling me?

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The sugar threads crystallize in the water, catching light like

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frozen lightning. My mind drifts to last month's underground dinner,

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to hands sliding across silk covered skin, to lips brushing

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against my ear, whispering praise in a voice i'd know anywhere,

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to a mask that couldn't hide the intensity in those

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green gold eyes. I hadn't known then that the mysterious

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guest in the wolf mask was Marcus Reed, but I'd

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felt the danger in his touch, tasted the secrets on

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his tongue. The memory of that night floods back, unbidden

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and electric. One month earlier, the October dinner had been

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themed seven deadly sins, each course designed to evoke a

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different transgression. By the time I served the sixth course, lust,

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a chell spiced dark chocolate bomb that melted under a

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pore of warm vanilla cream, the energy in the room

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was fever pitch He'd been watching me all night, the

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man in the wolf mask, not just watching, studying the

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way he held his wine glass, the precise manner he

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handled his cutlery. Everything screamed professional. But it was his

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response to each dish that captivated me. He didn't just taste,

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He experienced every bite. Seemed to draw him deeper into

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my web. I found him later in the wine cellar,

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where I store special vintages for my underground guests. He

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had his back to me, studying a bottle of Chateau

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Lafitte Rothschild. This is an excellent vintage, he said, without turning,

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nineteen eighty two, the year you were born. I believe

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A chill ran down my spine. He'd done his research.

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You seem to know a lot about me, mister wolf.

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He turned then, and even in the dim light, those

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eyes behind the mask burned. I know you're playing a

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dangerous game, Chef Chen, These dinners they're not just about food,

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are they. I stepped closer, drawn by the thread of

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challenge in his voice. Nothing is ever just about food. No,

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he set down the wine bottle, closing the distance between us.

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Then what is this about power? The words slipped out

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before I could stop it. Who has it? Who wants it?

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Who's willing to surrender it? His laugh was low, dark,

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and which are you? I didn't answer. Instead, I took

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his hand and pressed it against the silk of my dress,

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just over my thundering heart. What do you think? What

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happened next was inevitable. His hands, my mouth, the cool

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stone wall against my back. We kept our masks on,

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that was the rule. But rules blurred when he whispered

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my name, my real name, against my throat. They shattered

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completely when I came apart under his touch, gasping a

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name I sh shouldn't have known. Marcus present day, nothing

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to tell I lie now pulling the sugar threads from

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the water. He's a critic, he made a reservation. We'll

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be ready. Sophia makes that sound in her throat, the

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one that says she knows I'm full of shit but

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loves me anyway. Okay, chef, but remember what he did

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to your father. As if I could forget. The review

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that brought down James Chen's restaurants had been brutal, methodical,

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and absolutely true. Every health code violation, every cutting corner,

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every compromise standard laid bare for all of Chicago to see.

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Dad lost everything, his reputation, his legacy, his pride. I'd

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lost my hero, but I'd gained something else. Freedom, freedom

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from expectations, from tradition, from being the dutiful daughter. I

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built sweet heat from nothing, earned my own reputation. The

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Underground Dinners became my rebellion, my release, my realm where

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I made the rules. The prep for Tonight's Underground Dinner

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keeps my hands busy, if not my mind. Each course

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is a story, a seduction, a secret shared between chef

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and dinah. But the dessert that's where I pour my soul.

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Tonight's finale is a study in contradictions. Dark chocolate cake,

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bitter and dense, paired with passion fruit curd that explodes

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on the tongue, tellicherry pepper for heat, vanilla for sweetness,

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and those delicate sugar threads that shatter like glass between

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your teeth. I call it masked intentions. The name comes

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from a conversation I had with my first Underground Dinner guest,

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a woman who never removed her butterfly mask.

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Food.

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She'd said, is the only socially acceptable way to put

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something in someone else's mouth. The thought had stayed with me,

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shaped these dinners into something more intimate than mere meals. Chef,

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one of my line cooks, appears at the stairs. Your

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father's on the phone, speaking of masked intentions. Dad calls

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every week, usually after his second scotch. He'll reminisce about

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the glory days, rail against the critics who destroyed him,

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then try to wheedle information about my little underground project.

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He knows about the supper club, the whole industry does,

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but he doesn't know the guest list. Doesn't know that

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some of his old enemies have sat at my table

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wearing masks, tasting my food. Doesn't know that tonight's dinner

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might change everything. Tell him I'll call back tomorrow, I say,

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checking my watch. Two hours until service. I retreat to

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my private office to change the Chef's whites come off,

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replaced by a black silk dress that feels like a

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shadow against my skin. My fingers traced the edge of

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the mask on my vanity, a fox crafted from copper wire,

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and autumn leaves. The mask is my power. It lets

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me be someone else, someone bolder, darker, more dangerous, someone

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who would seduce a critic in a wine cellar, someone

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who might use that seduction for revenge, or someone who

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might fall for the enemy. Last month, when Marcus pressed

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me against the wine cellar wall, his hands knew exactly

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where to touch, how to tease, when to take. He'd

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tasted like the whiskey I'd pared with dessert, and his

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growl of pleasure against my throat had made me forget

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every rule I'd made about keeping business and pleasure separate.

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You're playing a dangerous game, he'd whispered, fingers tracing patterns

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on my inner thigh. I'm not playing, I'd answered, and

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meant it now. As I secure my mask and climb

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the stairs to greet my guests, I wonder if Marcus

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Reed will be wearing his wolf mask again tonight, if

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he'll remember the way I gasped his name, his real name,

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when he made me come, If he knows that I

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recognized his voice the moment he made that reservation. My

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underground Dinners have always been about power, about control, about

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the delicious tension between trust and surrender. But tonight feels different.

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Tonight the game has higher stakes. Sophia meets me at

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the hidden entrance, clipboard in hand. Everyone's arrived except mister Wolf,

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she says, using our code name system. Should we be worried?

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The main door opens, letting in a gust of November wind,

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and there he is, tall, broad shouldered, dangerous in a

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perfectly tailored suit, the wolf mask gleamed silver in the

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low light. No need to worry, I say, my pulse

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quickening as he approaches. The game is just beginning. His

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cologne reaches me first cedar and smoke, just like I

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remember then, his voice smooth as aged bourbon. Good evening,

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Chef Chen. I trust I'm not too late for the

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first course. In the candlelights, his eyes behind the mask

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are hungry, not just for food. I smile all teeth.

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You're right on time, mister Wolf. Tonight's menu is all

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about gratitude. Let the feast begin.

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Romance Weekly is a production of Caloroga Shark Media executive

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producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast

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may have been created with the assistance of AI

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Caloroga Shark Media