Funeral Mess

RHEA'S POV

I do not say a word. I just sit there, frozen in the same spot, watching the two of them as if I am not even in the same room. His hands move in slow circles on her back, pressing her closer. He never held me like that, even when I lost our baby. Seeing this feels like a knife between my ribs.

The waiting room door swings open, and a doctor in green scrubs steps out. Her face is set in that careful, neutral expression they must teach in medical school, the one that gives nothing away until the words are actually spoken.

"Family of Lolita Chapman?" she asks, her eyes sweeping over us.

I rise from my chair at the same moment Roxy tears herself away from Miles. We approach the doctor together, not looking at each other.

"I am her daughter," we say in unison, and I flinch at the sound of our voices. They are so similar, yet somehow, hers always seems to carry more weight.

The doctor nods, her eyes flicking between us, registering our almost identical features. "Your mother is stable," she says. "She sustained multiple lacerations, a few broken ribs, and a concussion, but her vital signs are strong. We have sedated her for now, but she should make a full recovery."

I let out a little sigh of relief. I am glad that she is fine. I would not know how to feel if it were any other news.

"And my uncle?" Roxy asks, her voice breaking. "Marcus White?"

The doctor's expression shifts subtly, and her careful, neutral mask slips just enough. "I am very sorry," she says quietly. "Mr. White suffered extensive injuries in the attack. We did everything we could, but he did not survive."

The words hang in the air for a moment. I do not move. I blink once, twice. Roxy's breath hitches, and she lets out a raw, primal cry. It tears from her throat like something living and wounded. Her knees buckle, and Miles is there instantly, catching her before she falls, gathering her against him. Her sobs come in violent waves, shaking her entire body.

"No, no, no," she keeps saying, the words muffled against Miles' chest. "Not Uncle Marcus. Please, no."

Miles' face is a mask of pain, not his own, but hers. He absorbs her grief like it is his duty and his calling. His arms tighten around her, creating a fortress of his body, shielding her from the harsh hospital lights and curious eyes. His lips move against her temple, murmuring words I cannot hear, words that are not meant for me.

I stand apart, feeling disconnected. I should feel something, should I not? This man was my uncle, too. But all I can summon is a vague, distant sadness, the kind you might feel hearing about a stranger's tragedy on the news. I do not feel the gut-wrenching grief that shakes my sister's body. She knew his love. I only knew his judgment.

The doctor is speaking again, saying something about arrangements and paperwork, but her voice fades in and out. Miles is nodding, one hand still cradling Roxy's head while the other reaches for the clipboard the doctor extends.

My stomach churns, and that familiar wave of nausea hits me again. It rises from my stomach to my throat in one burning surge. I press a hand to my mouth, my other arm wrapping around my middle. Not here and not now. Neither of them notices as I back away. Of course, they do not. I turn and walk quickly down the corridor, my vision tunneling, focusing only on the bathroom sign at the end of the hall.

I push through the door, grateful to find the bathroom empty. The harsh fluorescent light flickers above me as I lurch into the nearest stall, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with clumsy fingers. I barely make it to my knees before my stomach heaves. There is nothing to bring up but sour and burning bile. I retch anyway, as if my body is determined to purge something; grief, anger, or loneliness, I do not know. When it finally stops, I rest my forehead against the cool metal partition and close my eyes, breathing in shallow gasps.

Then the tears hit me all at once, not grief for Uncle Marcus, but for myself. For the girl who once saved a drowning boy and believed in fairy tales. For every moment spent alone, for every night lying beside a man who wished I was someone else, for every moment of the last five years spent chasing a ghost of what might have been.

***

Uncle Marcus's funeral arrangements go into full swing after Mom becomes conscious. I do not bother joining the burial arrangements. I felt too sick to join.

I arrive at my uncle's funeral reception late, three days later. I skipped the sad service at the graveyard. I could not stand in a line and listen to people say kind words about a man who was never kind to me.

I push open the heavy oak door, stepping into the crowded living room in heels that click too loudly against the hardwood floor. Everyone is dressed in black. I am dressed in black too, but my version is different. My black dress is too tight and a tad too short. My lips are painted a deep red matte; my eyes lined with dark kohl. My earrings shimmer slightly when I move. It is a shield and a silent rebellion. If I am going to feel like a ghost in this family, I might as well dress like a ghost worth remembering.

Heads turn as I walk in, and eyes trail after me. The room hushes slightly, conversations falter before resuming at a lower volume. I scan the sea of black suits and dresses, meeting stares head-on until they drop their gaze first. Most of these people have whispered about me for years: the less pretty twin, the one who trapped Miles, the unworthy Luna. Today, I am giving them something new to talk about.

My mother sits in a wheelchair near the fireplace, her face pale and drawn, her right arm in a cast. She looks somehow small and diminished. When she sees me, her expression hardens.

"You are late," she says as I approach. "And dressed like that? This is a funeral, Rhea, not a fashion show. Have you no respect?"

I meet her eyes steadily. "Hello to you too, Mom. How are you feeling?"

She ignores my question. "Why were you not at the cemetery? Your sister was devastated, and you could not even bother to show up?"

"I had pack business," I lie smoothly. The truth is I could not stomach watching Roxy's performance, I could not bear to see Miles comforting her while I stood alone in the background like the dutiful, invisible wife.

Mom's lips thin. "Business more important than family?"

"We have different definitions of family," I say quietly.

Her face flushes, but before she can respond, Miles appears at her side, one hand resting lightly on the back of her wheelchair.

"Mrs. Chapman, can I get you anything?" he asks in a gentle voice. Then, he looks at me with a quick, assessing look. "Rhea. You made it."

His tone is carefully neutral, not pleased or disappointed, just acknowledging my existence. He is wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that makes his shoulders look broader and his waist narrower. I hate how my heart still skips at the sight of him.

"I would not miss it," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue.

Miles nods, then turns back to my mother, saying something about making sure she is comfortable. Then he looks at me again. "Do you need a drink, Rhea?"

I shake my head with a practiced smile. He nods as an elder approaches him. He talks to the elder, nodding politely, but his eyes keep darting between Roxy and me. As soon as the elder claps his shoulder and walks off, Miles turns to me.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice low.

I nod, but before I can say more, he glances away as Roxy waves at him from across the room. Miles shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes flick to the untouched food on the long table, and without asking, he grabs a small plate, scoops a few things onto it, and hands it to me. "You should eat something," he says.

"I am not hungry," I say quietly. "Thanks for looking out."

He nods and stands awkwardly beside me for a few minutes, then, his eyes drift across the room to where Roxy stands, now surrounded by a circle of sympathetic faces, and something in his expression softens. I turn away, unable to watch. For three days, I have barely seen him. He has been at the hospital, at the funeral home, at Roxy's side, anywhere else, except by my side. I have spent the time applying to pack colleges, desperate for something, anything to fill the emptiness. To give me purpose beyond being the unwanted wife of an Alpha who loves my sister.

I make my way to the drinks table and pour myself a generous glass of whiskey, downing half of it in one burning swallow. When I look up, Miles is beside Roxy again. His hand is on the small of her back, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. She nods, brushes a tear away, and leans into him just slightly. It is subtle, nothing inappropriate, just a brother-in-law comforting his sister-in-law. But I know better. Everyone knows better.

I retreat to a quiet corner of the room, nursing my drink, watching the performance of grief around me. Some are genuine while some are practiced. Uncle Marcus was well-respected in the pack. He was wealthy and influential. Alpha Dennis' head gamma in his time.

"Hiding in the corner at your own uncle's funeral? Classy."

The voice slides over me like ice water. I do not need to turn to know who it is, but I do anyway, facing my sister with what I hope is a blank expression. Roxy looks beautiful even in grief. Her black dress is elegant and tasteful, her makeup is minimal but perfect, highlighting the red rims of her eyes, evidence of sincere tears.

"What do you want?" I ask, my voice low.

Her lips curve into a smile that does not reach her eyes. "Just checking on my dear sister. You know, the one who could not be bothered to come to the cemetery."

I take another sip of my drink. "I am sure you handled the grieving daughter role well enough for both of us."

"Jealousy does not suit you, Rhea." She steps closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Even after I left Miles for nearly two years, you still could not make him look at you. Not the way he looks at me."

My grip tightens on my glass. "He is my husband."

"And?" Her smile widens, cruel and confident. "A piece of paper does not change where his heart lies. You have had him all to yourself for years, and he still comes running the moment I call."

The whiskey burns in my empty stomach. Her words are poison darts, and each one is finding its mark. Every insecurity, every fear I have nursed in the dark of our bedroom while Miles sleeps with his back to me, she gives them voice, makes them real.

"You do not know what you are talking about," I say, but my voice shakes. "He looks at me every night when he is in my bed, Roxy. The bed you will never be in."

Her smug expression falters. "You are pathetic, Rhea. Forcing him to stay with you because of a child you could not even keep."

Something inside me snaps, like a dam breaking and flooding me with years of hurt and rage and humiliation. "Shut up," I hiss, but she does not.

"Why would I?" she shrugs. "You already turned this funeral into your personal runway show. And you wore all that," she gestures lazily to my outfit, "hoping he will see you for once."

"At least I did not have to drug myself into madness to get a man to pity me," I hiss, stepping toward her.

She gasps, eyes widening, but she recovers almost immediately. "Oh, really. But who owns his attention now, huh? Was he at your side on your birthday? Where did you think he was? Have you been wondering where he is for the past three days? Even your bastard baby could not keep him to you—"

"I said shut up!" My voice rises, louder than I intended.

"Or what?" she taunts, eyes gleaming. "What will you do, Rhea? Go cry to your husband? Oh wait, he is too busy holding me while I mourn our uncle. The uncle who loved me, not you."

I throw my drink in her face.

"You bitch!" I scream, and the room falls silent. "You are the one who killed my baby! You pushed me! You did this! You are a liar and a thief!" I take a step toward her. "You stole my life! You stole him from me!"

"Rhea!"

Miles's horrified voice cuts through my tirade. He rushes over, his face a mask of shock and anger.

Roxy's expression morphs from shock to calculated hurt, tears welling in her eyes as she steps back. "How could you?" she whispers, just loud enough for those nearby to hear. "At Uncle Marcus's funeral?"

The room blurs around me as people stare, and whispers ripple outward like waves. Someone gasps, and someone else makes a disapproving click with their tongue.

And then Miles is there in an instant. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands, but he is looking at me, not Roxy. Always at me, never at her.

Roxy collapses against him, sobbing prettily. "I just wanted to make sure she was okay," she cries. "And she attacked me!"

Miles wraps his arm around her, shielding her, his eyes never leaving mine. There is disgust there, disappointment, and shame. I stand frozen with the dripping glass still in my hand, as the full weight of what I have done crashes down on me. I have played right into her hands. Created exactly the scene she wanted. Proven to everyone and to Miles, that I am exactly what they think I am: bitter, jealous, and unworthy.