The black dress I was still wearing carried the scent of lilies and cold rain when I pulled into my parents’ driveway.
I had driven straight from the funeral home—no stops, no coffee, no moment to breathe. Grief sat beside me in the car like an invisible passenger. My husband, Gideon Pierce, was gone, and the world kept moving as if his death were just another ordinary day.
I had come for one reason: to tell my parents and my sister Marina the truth before they heard it somewhere else.
Earlier that morning, Gideon’s lawyer had spoken gently but firmly.
“Mrs. Pierce, the estate is quite significant. People will have questions. It’s better if your family hears it from you first.”
The numbers still felt wrong next to the reality of death.
Eight and a half million dollars.
