The ebony casket holding my pregnant daughter sat beneath the cathedral lights like a wound carved into the center of the church, swallowing every trace of warmth from the room.
Inside that polished coffin, my daughter, Claire Bennett, looked impossibly delicate, like a porcelain figure abandoned in winter. Her skin had lost all color. Her lips were still. One pale hand rested over the soft curve of her stomach, protecting the grandson I would never meet.
Then the laughter came.
Not a nervous chuckle. Not the awkward sound of discomfort.
A real laugh.
Deep. Confident. Completely untouched by grief.
The sound ripped through the slow funeral hymn like broken glass. Heads turned instantly toward the massive oak doors. The older women in the pews stiffened in shock. Even the lilies beside the altar trembled from the sudden movement in the room.
There he stood.
Adrian Cross.
My son-in-law.
His black shoes gleamed beneath the stained-glass light, and the expensive watch on his wrist flashed as casually as if he were attending a business luncheon instead of his wife’s funeral. But it was the sight of his hand resting possessively on another woman’s waist that made something poisonous burn through my veins.
Her name was Vanessa Hale.
The same woman who had slowly destroyed my daughter’s marriage piece by piece.
Vanessa wore a tight black dress that hugged her body like smoke, with a delicate mourning veil that did absolutely nothing to hide the satisfaction shining in her eyes. Her heels clicked sharply across the church floor, cold and rhythmic, sounding almost like applause echoing through the sanctuary.
