I remained standing beside Claire’s coffin, my fingers intertwined so tightly they ached. My sister held onto my elbow, silently begging me not to react. Behind us, several neighbors whispered horrified prayers beneath trembling breaths.
But I stayed perfectly still.
Adrian scanned the church lazily until his eyes landed on me. Then he released Vanessa’s waist and walked toward the altar, instantly putting on the expression of a grieving widower.
“Evelyn,” he said smoothly, using my first name as though we were old friends meeting at a dinner party. “Terrible tragedy.”
Vanessa drifted beside him, the sweet smell of jasmine perfume surrounding her like poison. She leaned closer to my ear, lips curling beneath dark lipstick.
“Looks like I finally won,” she whispered.
For one unbearable second, grief disappeared and fury took its place.
I wanted to rip the veil from her face. I wanted to drag Adrian across the stone floor by his expensive tie. I wanted to scream until every stained-glass window shattered.
But then I looked back at Claire.
Still.
Silent.
Gone forever.
The rage hardened into something colder. Sharper.
Because Adrian expected tears. He wanted chaos. He wanted me broken and hysterical so he could stand outside afterward and play the devastated husband for the reporters already waiting beyond the church doors.
All these years, he believed I was weak because I spoke softly. He mistook patience for stupidity. He assumed grief would blind me.
He was wrong.
