There he stood. Evan Vale. My son-in-law.
His polished oxfords gleamed under the stained-glass light, a heavy gold watch flashing against his wrist as he casually adjusted his tie. But it was his left hand that ignited the acid in my veins. It rested, possessive and relaxed, right at the narrow waist of the woman who had systematically dismantled my daughter’s marriage.
Her name was Celeste Marrow.
She wore a mourning dress that clung to her like a second skin, a veil of black netting doing absolutely nothing to obscure the triumphant gleam in her eyes. Her stilettos clicked against the ancient stone floor of the church—sharp, rhythmic, and merciless. It sounded exactly like applause after a perfectly executed crime.
I stood beside the coffin, my hands clasped so tightly before me that my knuckles ached with the strain. Behind me, the elderly women from my neighborhood murmured frantic, breathless prayers, their faces hidden behind dark, gloved hands. My sister gripped my elbow, her fingernails biting into my skin in a silent plea for restraint.
I did not move a single muscle.
Evan’s gaze drifted lazily over the crowd until it locked onto mine. He detached himself from Celeste just long enough to stride to the front, adopting a mask of solemnity so quickly it made my stomach pitch.
“Margaret,” he said warmly, his voice dripping with the casual affection of a man greeting a distant aunt at a holiday cocktail party. “Terrible day.”
Celeste glided up beside him, tilting her chin. Her lips, painted a dark, bruised red, curved upward. She leaned in close, the sickeningly sweet scent of jasmine and vanilla radiating off her skin, choking the scent of the funeral lilies.
“Looks like I win,” she whispered, the words meant only for the hollow of my ear.
A wildfire ignited in my throat. For one blinding, agonizing second, I ceased to be a grieving mother. I was a tempest of pure violence. I wanted to tear that ridiculous netting from her hair. I wanted to seize Evan by his immaculate, starched collar and drag him across the stone. I wanted to scream until the vibrations shattered every pane of stained glass in the cathedral.
Rip them apart, my mind roared. Burn them down.
But then, my eyes darted back to the open casket. To Emma’s hands.
Still.
Forever.
The fire in my throat hardened into a block of ice. I swallowed the scream, pushing it down deep into my chest where it would serve a better purpose.
Evan was waiting for it. He expected the tears. He craved the chaotic scene. He wanted the shattered, hysterical old woman collapsing in a heap of unintelligible grief, so he could play the tragic, long-suffering widower for the inevitable swarm of cameras waiting on the church steps. Throughout their marriage, Evan had always believed I was insignificant simply because I spoke softly. He thought my graying hair equated to weakness. He thought my maternal grief would render me blind, deaf, and foolish.
