I sat in the third row, fingers clenched around a damp tissue. My name is Natalie Brooks. Grief was still tearing me apart when the heavy doors at the back of the church creaked open.
The priest stopped mid-sentence. High heels struck marble with confidence that didn’t belong in a place like this.
Everyone turned.
Ethan Caldwell walked in as if he owned the tragedy. Tailored suit, perfect hair, expensive watch. He didn’t look like a grieving husband. He looked inconvenienced.
And on his arm was Vanessa Reed.
The mistress. Twenty-seven, flawlessly sculpted, dressed in a tight black designer dress better suited for a gala. Her heels echoed through the cathedral, each step a slap across Sofia’s memory.
Whispers rippled. Phones appeared. The scandal went live.
Then Sofia’s mother screamed.
Maria Alvarez collapsed, years of quiet strength giving way all at once. I caught her as she fell, holding her while she sobbed into my shoulder. Ethan didn’t even glance our way. He guided Vanessa to the front row—the family section—sat down, crossed his leg. Vanessa checked her lipstick.