Not a careful smile. Not a grief-strained one. A casual, satisfied smile—like he’d arrived late to a party he expected to enjoy. His suit was flawless. His hair was perfectly set. And on his arm was a young woman in a red dress, chin lifted, eyes bright with a confidence that didn’t belong in a church.
People around me stiffened. A few gasped. Someone covered their mouth. The priest stopped mid-page, his book still open, as if the words had suddenly vanished.
Ethan looked around like he owned the room and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Oops. We’re late. Downtown traffic is insane.”
The woman in red scanned the pews with curiosity—tourist-like, almost amused—until her eyes found mine.
As she passed me, she leaned in, like she was about to offer condolences.
Instead, she whispered, soft and icy:
“Looks like I won.”
Something in me cracked so cleanly it felt permanent.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to do something reckless, something ugly, something that matched the cruelty of her smile. But I didn’t move. I locked my gaze on the casket and forced myself to breathe, because I knew if I opened my mouth, it wouldn’t be a sound—it would be a raw, animal noise I couldn’t take back.
