Rain clung to the rooftops of Saint Aurelia as if the sky refused to let go of its grief. In the hillside cemetery of Valmont Ridge, mourners in tailored coats gathered around a polished oak coffin. Wealth had a scent here. Imported lilies. Foreign cologne. The trembling hush of people who feared scandal more than sorrow.
Inside that circle stood Jack Halberg. The world knew him as a formidable hotel magnate. Yet today he was only a widower whose composure cracked like thin ice. On the portrait set against the coffin, his wife Mirelle smiled in a shimmering blue gown from a charity gala. Her brightness mocked the grey afternoon.
Whispers rippled through the mourners. One woman murmured, “They say her car was found in flames. Nothing recognizable.” Another replied, “The authorities rushed everything. They say it was an accident, but nothing adds up.”
No one had seen Mirelle’s body. Jack had been denied access with gentle but immovable excuses. Limited visibility. Severe trauma. Better to remember her as she had been. He had accepted it because grief blurred judgment. Now that blur tightened around his throat.