Whispers rippled through the pews. Faces turned. Brows furrowed. No one pulled out phones — not yet. It was still a funeral, and even scandal tries to dress itself in respect when death is in the room.
Ethan didn’t hesitate.
He guided Vanessa straight to the front row.
Claire’s seat.
The place where my sister should have been — smiling softly, rubbing her swollen belly, complaining she was exhausted but glowing because the baby finally kicked hard enough to make her laugh.
But Claire wasn’t there.
Claire was in the closed casket beneath a spray of white roses.
She was thirty-two weeks pregnant when she “fell” down the stairs.
That’s what Ethan told everyone.
A terrible accident. A tragic slip. Nothing more.
I never believed him.
I started to stand without realizing it, fury slicing through my grief. I wanted to march down that aisle and rip Vanessa out by her perfectly styled hair. I wanted Ethan to look at the coffin — really look at it — and feel even a fraction of the devastation he had caused.
My father’s hand clamped around my wrist.
“Not here, Ava,” he murmured, his voice steady but tight. “Not today.”