Welcome to “First Chapters,” Cosmo’s column where we shine a spotlight on debut authors who you are definitely going to be obsessed with. And what better way for you to get to know them and their books than with an excerpt of their new release. This round, we’re highlighting Caitlin Alice Gilbert’s La Dolce Veto, a new romance that follows a young congresswoman who loses her re-election campaign after her opposing candidate exposes old steamy text messages between them to win her seat. In an effort to regroup and find out what is next, she heads back to Italy where she finds herself unexpectedly using her skills to help some locals as they fight back against a five-star hotel that would change their town for the worse. Here’s some more info from Arndell:
From debut author Caitlin Alice Gilbert comes a bold and emotionally resonant romance that flips the script on scandal, and shows the power of self-discovery, redemption, and a summer of love in a small Italian town.
Rising star US Congresswoman Isabella Rhodes was supposed to be making history—not headlines.
But when a devastating betrayal shatters her political career overnight, she flees to La Musa, a sleepy village in the heart of Umbria where the days are slow, the pasta is handmade, and no one knows her name.
At Villa Farentino, Izzy hopes to start fresh, far from politics and the relentless eyes of the world. But her plans unravel when she learns she’ll be sharing the villa with Benito Farentino, the brooding, newly elected mayor who is just as determined to save his crumbling hometown as he is unwilling to trust outsiders.
As tensions grow over a controversial hotel development, Izzy is pulled into the fight for La Musa’s future… and further into Benito’s world. And soon, what began as a quiet escape becomes a chance to rebuild, to believe again, and maybe even to fall in love.
Izzy now has a choice. Will she risk her second chance at happiness for the life she left behind, or stay and fight for the one she’s only just begun to imagine?
And you can get a first look at this swoon-y romance with an sneak peek below! Just make sure to pre-order La Dolce Veto so you can find out what happens next when it's released on April 7, 2026!
Prologue
“A woman’s bodily autonomy is not what’s up for debate here,” Congressman Finch says, the edges of fingers greasy from the hamburger he just devoured during the lunch break. There’s still flecks of salt in his dusty mustache. It’s like he saw a picture of Tom Selleck in the ’90s, decided he could pull off the same look, then kept it up with a pair of children’s safety scissors ever since. “It’s the principle of office talk. The message we send to young boys everywhere that their entire lives could be derailed by one flimsily tossed-out sentence.”
Members of his party nod in agreement and I want to vomit. We’re six hours into congressional hearings about sexual harassment at government agencies. Several, notably male, heads of these agencies have been emphatically testifying that the behavior both they and their, also male, subordinates conducted is protected by free speech and also at the same time didn’t happen and if it did happen, it was passing comments with no ill intention behind them. The female employees who testified yesterday feel a lot differently, obviously, and I personally am going to scream if these old men don’t shut up about how ranking the most and least fuckable in the office is merely boys being boys.
“Congresswoman Rhodes,” the speaker says, and I perk up. “You have the floor. Five minutes.”
“Mr. Donaldson,” I say, turning toward the head of the Federal Reserve who’s currently trying to clear his name. “You said the actions of both yourself and your male colleagues were greatly exaggerated. Is that correct?”
He nods. He’s slimy looking, with a head of hair that’s almost completely hardened by gel. “That’s correct, Congresswoman.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And are you prepared to say the testimonies of your female colleagues yesterday are greatly exaggerated?”
“Yes,” he says, certainly keeping it short and sweet as advised by his attorney.
“Thank you, and one such colleague, Rayna Spear, are you familiar with her?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Everyone in America knows Rayna Spear. It was her whistleblowing that forced Congress to launch this investigation in the first place.
“Yes,” Mr. Donaldson says. “Though Ms. Spear was not a direct report of mine.”
“Ms. Spear testified that she was fired after reporting the repeated sexual harassment she endured from her peers and her supervisor.”
Mr. Donaldson swallows so hard I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down from my seat several yards away from him. “I am aware that she testified to that effect, yes.”
“Ms. Spear said her supervisor told her aggressors that she reported them and as a result she faced retaliation that was even worse than the original harassment, including crude comments, gestures, and notes left at her desk.”
Mr. Donaldson doesn’t say anything in response. He looks to his lawyer then back at me. “I’m sorry, Congresswoman, did you have a question?”
“My question is, are you prepared to testify today, under oath, that Ms. Spear lied about these claims?”
“Now hang on—” Congressman Finch interjects, violating like six House rules in the process. “I see what you’re doing, Ms. Rhodes.”
“Mr. Finch.” The speaker cuts him off. “This is Ms. Rhodes’s time.”
“No, I’m sick of this,” he says.
“Mr. Finch—” The speaker tries again.
“I’m sick of this little girl always trying to goad good men into saying something that will make them look indefensible,” he says. I merely sit back and watch as he self-destructs.
“Mr. Finch, this is not your time,” the speaker reminds him.
“I’ve known Mr. Donaldson for years and I know him to be a good man,” Finch says, his face now red, though it’s hard to see past the mustache. “I will not allow Ms. Rhodes to sully his good name for the sake of one woman’s comfort at work.”
“And what about my comfort at work?” I ask, because after all, it is still my time.
“Oh, you’re so uncomfortable as the most famous member of Congress? Is that what it is?” Finch says. “I’m not going to let some 25-year-old kid yell at me—”
“I’m 33 but thank you,” I interject.
He scoffs. “The cover of Vogue wasn’t enough; you have to burn everyone else while you rise to the top?” “Mr. Finch, that’s enough,” the speaker says, his tone punishing but nonthreatening, like a sitcom principal.
“It was Rolling Stone, actually,” I say. And I looked fucking great on that cover. “You’re probably confused because I was at the Met Gala, which is sponsored by Vogue.”
“You’re an insufferable bitch,” Mr. Finch says, and the Congress floor and the gallery above gasp in response.
“Mr. Finch, that’s enough,” the speaker says again, firmly. “Ms. Rhodes, you have four minutes remaining.”
“Are you done?” I ask Mr. Finch, who says nothing, now embarrassed by his own outburst because he made the speaker speak louder than his inside voice. “I have a point of order before we continue,” I say.
“Go ahead,” the speaker says.
“I’d like Mr. Finch’s words to be taken down,” I say, turning my body to him and remembering to keep my voice calm and even but strong and effective. It’s always a balance for a woman in power. “You don’t have to like me, Mr. Finch, but I do expect a semblance of respect while we are both here representing the people of the United States.”
Mr. Finch glares at me, saying nothing. After a moment, he looks down in his lap. “It’s not necessary. I move to strike my words from the record.”
“And I’d like an apology,” I say, which is not in the congressional rule book, and I might be pushing my luck with our very orderly speaker, but I kind of just want to see if Finch will do it. I look to Marisol, Congresswoman Reyes, and she’s suppressing a smile. At 34, Marisol is the only other person on the committee born after the invention of the internet. And my congressional bestie. She gives me an emphatic fist pump which earns the eye rolls of several of our colleagues.
“Excuse me?” he says.
“Excuse me?” I say. “Excuse you. Do you understand where we are? We are in a hearing for systemic sexual harassment in the very government we serve, and you are here openly harassing one of your female colleagues.” I look around the room to make sure people are still with me; everyone is leaning forward in their seats to see what happens next, even Mr. Donaldson, so I think I’m good. “By interrupting my time, you showed that you have no respect for me, no respect for these proceedings, and no respect for the women of this country. I am asking for an apology before we move on.”
Finch looks to the speaker, but he does nothing. He waits another moment, like maybe I’ll take it back and run away like a scared little girl. That’s what men in these situations are hoping for, right? That us girls remember our place and choose to flee positions with agency and return to our rightful place in the home. If they make a powerful position uncomfortable for us, it’ll be our choice to leave it and they can skirt all blame. Not today. Not on my watch. “An apology,” I say again.
Finch audibly sighs into the microphone. “I apologize.”
“Good,” I say. I turn my attention back to the hearing. “Now, Mr. Donaldson—”
***
“That was great today,” Kate, my campaign manager, says as she escorts me out of the Capitol. “The team’s already working on splicing up the clips from the proceedings into a campaign ad. We aren’t worried about the female vote, obviously, but this will get the granola men who are passionate about virtue-signaling their support of women’s rights.”
“An important subset of my district,” I say, with zero irony. I represent one of the bougiest quadrants of Los Angeles: West Hollywood, Hollywood, Los Feliz, Silver Lake—I have to court the Sweetgreen vote.
“We’re all set for the event tomorrow?” I ask. We’re only a few weeks out from the election and despite the fact that the media is obsessed with me, I’m not as comfortably ahead in the polls as I’d like to be.
Kate nods. “Get ready to kiss some babies. We’re slightly behind on the stage mom vote.” Kate cracks a smile. This time she is joking.
We get into a car right outside the Capitol and go directly to a small, private airport in Virginia. I used to fly commercial back and forth from DC to Los Angeles, but the security risk became too great. My private security detail says I get at least one credible death threat a day. It used to terrify me, but now I find being constantly surrounded by people whose sole job is to keep me safe comforting. We board the jet, which technically belongs to Congressman Jennings, whose family owns half of LA and lets me hitch rides back and forth with him. He’s staying behind in DC this break though, so my team and I get the plane to ourselves.
I change into my sweats once we’re onboard and curl up in one of the lush chairs, reading through the latest campaign data. We’re almost ready to land at Burbank Airport when I see one of my advisors, Mark, whisper something to Kate that makes concern splash across her face. It’s brief, because Kate has a great poker face, but it’s enough that my stomach drops. Kate makes her way over to me and sits down next to me. “Izzy,” she says. “Levi wants to meet with you when we land.”
My heart clenches and for a second I wonder if I’ll die from acute stress at 33. “What?” is all I can say. I haven’t seen Levi in months. Not in person anyway. Why did he go through my campaign instead of reaching out to me directly?
“He wants to meet you at your office,” Kate says. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I look out the window. It’s completely pitch black except for a few bundles of lights from the LA outskirts. It was well after 7 p.m. when we left DC and it’s a long flight. I was looking forward to going right to bed when I got home, not meeting Levi.
“Are you ok with this?” Kate asks. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, of course.”
We pull up to my district office 45 minutes later. The one advantage of the late hour is there’s no traffic, unusual for this part of Los Angeles. Other than a few drunk people wandering into the dive bar on the bottom floor of the building, the block is quiet.
There are still a few campaign staffers working in the office when we make it up the janky elevator. It’s an old industrial building in East Hollywood, a conscious parallel to the superstar status I’ve acquired since I beat out my incumbent in the primary. He was gracious when I won two years ago. He said he’d done all he could do, and it was time for someone younger with more energy to take the reins.
Kate whispers to the staffers and they clear out, so the office is completely empty. “Do you want me to stay?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’m good, but thank you.” She smiles quickly then bows out. I check my face in my phone camera. My makeup from this morning has mostly rubbed off but I don’t look too exhausted. I dot a little concealer under my eyes and run the mascara wand through my eyelashes. Richard, my head of security, catches me fixing my hair and applying a new layer of lip gloss. “Don’t judge me, Richard,” is what I want to say, but that’s not really our dynamic. He nods in my direction then posts himself outside the door, leaving the office for me and soon, Levi. My heart races at the thought of seeing him.
The elevator dings and through the frosted glass I see two heads bob out. One stays outside with Richard while the other reaches for the door. When he swings it open, the unmistakable smell of Tom Ford and two extra dry martinis wafts through with him.
It takes every bit of energy left in my cells after this extremely long day to not get immediately turned on by the sight of him. He’s more polished than before, sharp in custom Armani and shiny shoes that click across the cement floors. When his ocean-blue eyes meet mine, I shiver. Even after everything, his energy alone makes a river of want swell in my gut. “Hi,” I say.
Levi nods, forcing out a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”
He walks over to me, and I take a step back instinctively. I haven’t talked to him like this, on a personal level, in months. There’s so much I want to say but so much I know I shouldn’t say, it’s hard to know where to begin. “I don’t know where to start,” I say.
Levi looks at me, surprised. “Pardon?” he asks. Genuinely confused.
“I mean, I feel like there’s so much we have to say to each other,” I say.
Levi’s eyebrows twitch and I realize we are not on the same page. We are not on the same page at all. He didn’t come here to make peace or to hash things out. He didn’t come here for me. “Why are you here?” I ask.
Levi sighs. “Look, this isn’t easy. None of this has been easy—” He fishes his phone out of his front pocket. “This is coming out tomorrow,” he says, showing me his phone screen, but my eyes struggle to focus. “Your team will probably hear from the press for comment imminently, but I thought I owed you the courtesy of letting you know personally first.”
My eyes try to fix on the screen but it’s like my brain is protecting me from processing what I am seeing. It’s texts. It’s our texts. Or more specifically, my texts. To him. Plastered into an article about my texts to him. An exclusive. In the fucking Times. I force myself to take a breath. “What in the actual fuck?” I exhale.
“I didn’t leak them,” he says. “But we were made aware of them tonight. And I’m not stopping them from coming out.”
I’m going to vomit. Or have a heart attack. Or disintegrate into dust and blow out the window and into the night. “What the fuck,” I repeat.
“It’s just politics, Isabella,” he says, employing my full government name. His insistence on never calling me by my preferred nickname Izzy was charming, suave even, at first but right now the sound of all four syllables makes me gag. He cocks his head at me, his aggressively beautiful eyes attempting to lock onto mine. “It’s not personal.”
I dodge to avoid eye contact like he’s launching a missile directly at my face. “Not personal?” I ask, gesturing wildly around my head because I’m pretty sure steam is coming out of my ears, and I want it to dissipate before it sets off the fire sprinklers. The last thing I need right now is for my office to be flooded with water that’s been sitting in hot, leaded pipes for who knows how many years. “How is this not personal? You’re leaking my texts, our texts.”
“Like I said,” he says, so calmly it adds even more fuel to the rage fire burning in my chest, “I didn’t leak them. No one on my team leaked them, it was completely unrelated to my camp—”
“Ugh!” I yell, pushing a stack of Re-Elect Rhodes bumper stickers off the table next to me so dramatically they rain down to the floor in a flurry of red, white, and blue. “Please at least do me the dignity of not repeating that insipid lie.” I sit back on the desk behind me and roll up the sleeves of my UCLA sweatshirt. The roar of a fire engine speeding down Hollywood Boulevard is the only sound in the room as Levi is silent.
He toys with his cuff links—tiny gold American flags that cost more than my car—while he, presumably, waits for me to calm down. He’s frustratingly handsome in a suit. It was when we were community organizers that I fell for him, in sweaty T-shirts with his unkempt hair splaying out wildly under his royal blue Dodgers hat, but damn it if I don’t notice how good he looks all cleaned up. Presidential even. I gag again. “I just don’t understand why you had to do this to—”
“I did not release the texts!” he interrupts, his forehead creasing as he raises his hands in surrender.
“I don’t mean the texts,” I say, standing back up and taking a step toward him. This is the first time we’ve been alone since he announced his candidacy and my body is, as it turns out, apolitical and still craves being close to him. “I mean running in my district. I mean running against me.” I take another step closer. He’s only a couple of inches taller than me. I forgot about that. On the TV ads when he’s listing all the reasons he’d be a better congressperson for California’s 45th district than me, on his billboards that line the route from home to my office, on his social media ads that clog my feed when I’m trying to unwind from a long congressional session, he looms so much larger. “Why did you have to run against me?”
Levi doesn’t answer at first. I watch as his eyes scan over me, and I can’t decide if he’s feeling the same residual longing under his skin as I am or if he’s sizing me up like prey, weighing the best way to go in for the kill as if I’m not already dead in the water. Part of me wants to kiss him just to see what he’d do.
Tomorrow there’d probably be 24-hour coverage on how I’m a sexual predator but at least my pathetic texts would be out of the news. “I don’t understand when you decided to hate me.” I shift my eyes into his, widening them and willing my tear ducts to create a watery sheen across their surface. The puppy dog eyes. No man, even a congressional candidate with Oval Office aspirations, is immune to the freaking puppy dog eyes.
“Isabella—” Levi starts. He sighs heavily. “I don’t hate you.” He reaches toward me, resting his hand on the side of my arm. I stiffen my body in response, as much as it wants to melt. I don’t want him to feel the muscle memory his touch evokes. He quickly moves his hand away. “Sorry. I—” He tries again, another sigh huffing out of him. “You of all people should understand why this isn’t about you. It’s about them. It’s about everyone.”
Unfortunately, I know him and his ideals so well that I know exactly what he means despite the broadness of his statement. There was a time where our shared ideals set my heart on fire. We both wanted nothing more than to leave the world better than we found it. To end the suffering of our neighbors. To focus on the collective good. To actually make good on the promise of liberty and justice for all. For everyone.
The irony of trampling over me on this grand pursuit toward liberating the huddled masses was lost on him apparently.
“But why did you have to take my district? Why did you have to go after me?” I ask. This might be the last time I ever speak to Levi, so I might as well stop beating around the bush and ask the question that’s been percolating in my brain ever since he announced his intention to run for my seat in January. The election’s less than a month away. And thanks to Levi, I’m probably going to lose.
He rubs his lips together, as if he’s struggling to come up with an answer, when I know the truth is he’s weighing how best to devastate me one final time. I’m not going to like the answer, but let it finally sever the last thin tie that binds the passionate, earnest, loving Levi of our past to the Hugo Boss ad standing in front of me now. He takes a step closer. “The committee who encouraged me to run noticed some”—he searches for the right words—“vulnerabilities in your candidacy. I wanted to wait another term, I wanted to seek out other solutions. I didn’t want to do this, Isa- bella, I didn’t want to run against you, but they made it seem like it was now or never. You know how much I want this.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do. But you also know how much I wanted this. There was a time when we shared all the same visions for the future, and you were willing to dispel all of that in favor of beating me.” I think to his platform, the way it cedes power to the wealthier, to the least burdened members of our—my district instead of supporting those most vulnerable to the perils of a harsh world. The small margin that separated our views wasn’t enough for him to pull ahead in the polls, so that’s when he turned to attacking me personally.
First it was Red Carpet Rhodes, an allusion to the fame that found me when I was elected even though I didn’t specifically seek it out, and now it’s the texts. It doesn’t matter that it’s a clear violation of privacy, that they were likely “obtained” illegally—now everyone will see me as the one thing they always feared I was in the back of their head—a woman. A woman, who, in spite of her ability to circumvent the conventional curse of housewifery and motherhood, is in fact, a human being with bones and blood and, most unpalatably, a desire for sex.
Levi loosens his tie slightly, enough for me to see the beads of sweat forming on his neck. Good. This should be hard for him. “It’s not personal,” he tries again.
I look at the article on his phone again, the gray bubbles of my shame staring back at me with the soon-to-be-infamous screenshots of my late-night texts. Sometimes I think of your body on mine and I want to quit Washington and just run away with you; it’s been too long since I’ve touched you; I need you. Horniness has brought down political leaders before; I just never thought late-night martini-fueled messages sent to my bicoastal situationship would be the death of my dream. I keep scrolling. I can’t wait until things are less chaotic here and we can just be. I love you so much. I hold back a sudden, strong desire to vomit, cringing at my delusional past self. “This is personal,” I say. “This is using what we had against me.”
“And what did we have, Isabella?” Levi asks. “Because from what I remember, we couldn’t have this”—he points between the two of us—“because of all of this,” he says, gesturing around my office.
I stare at him. No, glare. I glare at him. He knows how badly I wanted us. We’d danced around each other for years. It wasn’t until the night I told him I was running for Congress that he tearfully told me how proud he was of me, that he was waiting for me, that he knew it would be a bad time for us to start something, but that he loved me and as soon as it was right for me, we could be together.
We then spent our first night together working out years of tension and the subsequent time since has been reduced to late-night sexting. I knew the repercussions if I was using my time between congressional sessions for secret trysts with my specifically not-boyfriend and the world found out and besides, he was waiting for me. For him to twist our past to convenience whatever narrative he’s pushing in his head isn’t just a gut-punch, it’s offensive. It’s enraging.
My stomach tightens as I realize the reason we couldn’t be together wasn’t self-sacrifice on his part, it was that he couldn’t be with someone who was doing better than he was. We’d always had the same dream, the only difference between us now was that mine had come true—and he is willing to do whatever it takes for our circumstances to flip. He weighed his own desires against whatever regard he held for me and ultimately decided his own dream was worth destroying mine. He didn’t love me, that much was clear, but he also didn’t think I was worthy of the office I’d worked so hard to get and that is the real knife in the back.
“Brutus,” I mumble under my breath. “Fucking Brutus,”
I say louder, because fuck it, I want him to hear me. “There were better ways to tell me you didn’t want to be with me.” My phone dings with a news alert—I glance at it and see my name in the headline. By morning, my leaked texts will be at the top of everyone’s feeds. Tweeters, Threaders, Instagrammers, TikTokers, and everyone with news outlet push notifications will know that Congresswoman Isabella Rhodes was sending thirsty texts to her opposition mere days before he decided to run against her. They won’t explicitly outline that it was a cause-and-effect situation, but the timeline will heavily imply that he came to the conclusion I was using time that should be spent thinking about my constituents to text my crush.
Levi Cross had no choice but to step in and save them. It doesn’t help that his messages back to me were so banal. Keep focused on the good fight, Isabella, he’d replied to my drunken desperation. From the bubbles on the screen, it looks like he cared more about my job than I did.
By tomorrow, my supporters will be embarrassed for me, and my enemies will be vindicated. Levi will use his campaign event at the local IATSE chapter to denounce the leak publicly. He will say his campaign is taking all steps possible to find the source and a few days later, some mid-level staffer will come forward. The sacrificial lamb will assure everyone he acted alone and leave Levi looking like the hero of the story, the victim of all the unpleasantness of running a campaign.
And then, and then the focus will be back on me. As long as the texts are out there, they’re fair game. Levi will say we were good friends, but he rejected my romantic advances—as is clear in the texts—and he thinks Congresswoman Rhodes is focused on all the wrong things, I mean, clearly, he’ll joke. I’ve always kept it civil toward him because people in our community knew we had been friendly. I didn’t want to sound petty or at all emotionally affected by my bestie running against me, so I have always insisted we have a mutual respect for one another, and that our goals were the same. It’s almost too perfect, really, how easily my words can be twisted into an endorsement now. If any of my supporters have trepidation about jumping ship from Team Rhodes to Team Cross, they have my own glowing recommendation of Levi to turn to.
In other words, I am toast. I am done. My dream has been murdered right in front of me, and I did nothing to stop it from happening. My carefully curated image, down the drain. No one will see the hours upon hours I dedicated to the job every day, they’ll see the three minutes I spent texting. It won’t matter that I spent every waking hour of my 20s working toward this goal while my friends were starting relationships, marriages, families. I’ll look like a fool in love who cared more about getting a boyfriend than getting the job done. I’ll look like a giggly teenage girl gunning for prom queen, not a competent elected official. I will look weak.
“For what it’s worth, Isabella,” Levi says, lowering his voice so it’s all sultry and ragged—the last remnants of rasp from his cigarette-smoking days making him sound gravelly and Clooney-esque. It really, really, deeply annoys me how my heart swells in response. Levi presses a hand to the side of my head and despite my better judgment, I lean into it. “I thought you made a great congressperson.” I let my eyes land on his and he smiles haphazardly, testing the waters for some kind of truce.
I push his hand away. “But you think you can be a better one.”
**
Three weeks later Levi Cross defeats me in the general election.
My campaign hosts a victory party at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel and I throw up in a bathroom allegedly haunted by the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. The poetry of that is not lost on me even as I vomit up the last of the spicy tuna crispy rice I stress-ate over the last four hours since the polls closed. I make a speech conceding the race 45 minutes later.
“All I know is that the best person to represent this district is the person its people chose,” I say, but it’s bullshit. I’m better for this job than Levi Cross. I care more. I have stronger policy. In the two years since I was first elected, I’ve accomplished a lot of what I promised, but now all anyone was going to remember me for is this.
The media has a field day with my loss. The pundits parse over what went wrong in excruciating detail. The keyboard warriors on social media twist the knife by making jokes that turn into viral memes. Every corner of the internet is plastered with my failure. None of my colleagues want to meet with me so despite my desire to drown myself in work for whatever time I have left, I mostly spend my last days in DC binge-watching Real Housewives alone.
I finish my term in a daze and by January, my dream is officially dead.
LA DOLCE VETO Copyright © Caitlin Alice Gilbert 2026 Published by Arndell, an imprint of Keeperton in 2026 1527 New Hampshire Ave. NW Washington, D.C. 20036
La Dolce Veto,by Caitlin Alice Gilbert will be released on April 7, 2026 from Arndell. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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