Chapter 2 - The Open Casket Resurrection**
The crisp autumn air of the Pacific Northwest carried the scent of wet pine and distant rain as a hundred mourners dressed in somber black gathered beneath a massive canopy at the historic Seattle Memorial Gardens. It was the day of my funeral. Or rather, the elaborate, highly publicized theatrical production Brandon Prescott had orchestrated to mourn the "tragic loss" of his wife and unborn child.
A polished mahogany casket rested at the front of the tent, smothered in expensive white lilies and red roses. Surrounding it were enormous floral wreaths paid for by Brandon’s corporate partners, who had all rushed to send their deepest condolences to the grieving widower.
Sitting in the front row, flanked by media cameras and flashbulbs, was Brandon. He wore a masterclass expression of devastating grief, his head bowed solemnly, his shoulders trembling just enough to convince the local news outlets that he was a broken man. Right beside him, wearing a chic black Chanel dress and oversized designer sunglasses that hid her poorly concealed triumphant smirk, sat Gretchen.
“We are gathered here today to remember a remarkable woman,” the minister began, his voice echoing smoothly through the microphone. “Khloe Prescott and her unborn child were tragically taken from this world too soon, leaving behind a grieving husband whose heart is completely shattered—”
*“I wouldn't say shattered, Father,”* a crisp, clear, metallic voice cut sharply through the humid silence of the tent.
The minister stopped mid-sentence. The murmurs of the crowd died instantly.
Every head turned in unison toward the gravel pathway leading into the cemetery.
Walking slowly down the center aisle was a sight that made several elderly relatives gasp and cross themselves. I wore a backless, tailored midnight-blue sheath dress that hugged my postpartum frame with flawless elegance. A matching wide-brimmed fascinator cast a soft shadow over my eyes, and my dark hair cascaded over my shoulders in immaculate waves. On my left arm, supporting me with steady, protective strength, walked Liam Vance, looking devastatingly sharp in a bespoke charcoal suit.
Behind us, a private security detail of four men in dark sunglasses maintained a perimeter, ensuring no one could bolt.
Brandon snapped his head up, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse rising from an open grave. The handkerchief slipped from his trembling fingers, fluttering down onto the damp grass.
Beside him, Gretchen went completely rigid, her mouth dropping open as she stared at me as if I were a literal phantom walking in broad daylight.
“Kh… Khloe…?” Brandon choked out, stumbling backward out of his folding chair until the back of his knees hit the edge of the mahogany casket. His voice was a thin, terrified squeak that echoed through the silent cemetery. “No… no, that’s impossible! You’re dead! We saw you go over the ridge!”
I stopped three feet away from him, my heels clicking softly against the concrete path. A cold, sardonic smile touched my lips.
“Surprise, darling,” I said, my voice carrying effortlessly across the entire gathering. “Did you really think a little snow and a fifty-million-dollar insurance policy could get rid of me that easily?”
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The media cameras exploded into a synchronized frenzy of clicking shutters and blinding flashes. Reporters began shouting questions over one another, while Brandon’s face turned from pale white to a furious, mottled crimson as he realized the catastrophic trap he had just walked into.
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