“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.
Near the altar, Claire’s attorney stepped from the shadows.
Walter Grayson was a thin older man with silver hair and a face carved from permanent seriousness. In his hands rested a thick ivory envelope with Claire’s handwriting across the front.
Adrian’s fake sympathy vanished immediately.
“Is this really necessary right now?” he snapped. “My wife hasn’t even been buried yet.”
Walter calmly adjusted his glasses.
“Per your late wife’s explicit instructions,” he announced, his voice carrying clearly through the sanctuary, “her final will and testament must be read publicly before burial proceedings begin.”
