At my father’s funeral?
After he brought his mistress wearing my stolen dress into the front row like she was auditioning to replace me before the flowers even died?
“No,” I said softly. “This is exactly where.”
The priest shifted awkwardly nearby while the organ player stared down at the keys, pretending not to hear any of it.
But everyone heard it.
Every investor.
Every politician.
Every member of old-money Manhattan society sitting in those pews.
Grant reached for my arm.
“Please,” he whispered. “We can talk privately.”
I stepped back before he could touch me.
That’s when my father’s attorney rose slowly from the second row.
Harold Bennett.
Seventy-two years old.
Silver-haired.
Precise.
Loyal to my father for over three decades.
And judging by the expression on his face…
he had been waiting for this moment.
“I believe,” Harold said calmly, “Mrs. Whitmore has not yet finished reading.”
Grant went pale.
Actually pale.
The kind of pale that comes from sudden terror.
Because somewhere deep down…
he already knew there was more.
I unfolded the second page.
