Chapter 3 - The Memorial Spectacle**
Saturday morning arrived with crisp, pale sunlight casting long shadows across the soaring gothic architecture of St. Jude’s Cathedral.
Inside, the grand hall was packed to capacity. Hundreds of mourners—wealthy investors, socialites, business partners, and local elites—sat in reverent silence as soft classical organ music drifted through the vaulted ceilings. At the front of the nave rested an ornate mahogany casket, closed and draped with cascading white roses.
In the front pew sat Victor Hale, wearing a bespoke black Armani suit, dabbing a pristine white handkerchief against his dry eyes with theatrical precision. Right beside him, draped in a tasteful black designer dress and clutching his arm with practiced intimacy, sat Serena.
To anyone watching, they were the picture of tragic, resilient grace.
Victor stood up to deliver the eulogy, stepping gracefully toward the mahogany podium. He cleared his throat, injecting a heavy, trembling dose of artificial sorrow into his voice.
“Elena was... a radiant light in our lives,” Victor began, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He bowed his head, letting out a soft, shuddering sigh that drew sympathetic gasps from the elderly women in the second row. “To lose her, and our unborn child, in such a violent, unforgiving storm on Blackthorn Cliff... it feels like a piece of my soul was torn away. But I take comfort in knowing she is at peace.”
Serena dabbed at her eyes, though anyone looking closely could see the smug, triumphant gleam of absolute victory hidden behind her handkerchief. They had pulled it off. The money was nearly cleared, the house was theirs, and the inconvenient wife was buried beneath six feet of mountain snow.
“We all must learn to carry on,” Victor continued, striking a dramatic, heroic pose against the podium. “Though the pain is unbearable, I know Elena would want me to stay strong, to keep building our legacy, and to cherish every moment we—.”
*CREAK.*
The massive oak doors at the back of the cathedral swung open with a resounding, thunderous crash.
The heavy swell of the organ music cut off instantly.
Every head in the congregation whipped around toward the entrance.
Standing in the doorway, bathed in a brilliant pillar of morning sunlight, was a tall, imposing figure with striking silver hair and steel-gray eyes: Adrian Cross.
And on his arm, walking with an unyielding, regal posture in a tailored cream-and-black trench coat, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders and a cold, breathtaking smile gracing her lips... was me.
A collective gasp swept through the cathedral like a freezing wind. Several elderly women dropped their prayer books. Multiple investors spilled their programs.
Victor froze mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open, his face draining of every drop of color until he looked like a corpse rising from the dead. The microphone feedback screeched a high-pitched whine as his grip on the podium failed entirely.
“W-What... what is this?” Victor stammered, his voice cracking into an undignified squeak. He pointed a trembling, manicured finger toward the aisle. “That’s... that’s impossible! You’re dead! You froze to death!”
I didn't stop walking. My heels clicked rhythmically against the stone floor, echoing through the stunned silence of the cathedral like the ticking of a doomsday clock.
Adrian walked beside me, his gaze locked onto Victor with the terrifying calm of an executioner.
When we reached the front pew, right beside the mahogany casket, I stopped. I turned my head slowly, looking down at Victor and Serena, whose faces had turned the exact shade of wet chalk.
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“Did you really think a fifty-million-dollar payout was enough to buy your freedom, Victor?” I asked, my voice carrying clearly to every single person in the room.
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