002

The funeral hall was too bright. Christiana stood near the entrance, dressed in black, her hair pulled back in a way that made her look older than twenty-one. People filed past her in a steady stream, each one offering words that meant nothing.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"They were wonderful people."

"If you need anything at all."

She nodded at each of them, her face blank, her responses automatic. Thank you. I appreciate it. Yes, they will be missed. The words came out smooth and rehearsed, like lines in a play she had not auditioned for.

Three days had passed since the phone call. Three days of police reports and paperwork and funeral arrangements that she handled alone because there was no one else to do it. Her parents had been only children. No siblings. No extended family that mattered. Just her.

She moved through the hall, watching people gather in clusters. Some of them she recognized from her parents' business dinners and charity events. Others were strangers wearing expensive suits and practiced expressions of sympathy. She caught fragments of conversations as she passed.

"Did you hear about the accounts?"

"Frozen. All of them."

"The house too. Government seized it yesterday."

"I always knew something was off."

Christiana stopped near a table lined with refreshments no one was eating. She picked up a glass of water and held it without drinking. Two women stood a few feet away, their voices low but not low enough.

"Fraud, they're saying," one of them murmured. "Embezzlement. Millions."

"And she had no idea?" the other asked, glancing in Christiana's direction.

"Look at her. Does she look upset?"

Christiana turned her head slightly, meeting the woman's eyes. The woman flushed and looked away, suddenly very interested in her purse. Christiana took a sip of water and moved on.

More whispers followed her through the room. She heard them all. The accusations. The speculation. The thinly veiled satisfaction in some of their voices, like they had been waiting for her family to fall and now they finally had front-row seats to watch it happen.

A man in a gray suit approached her, his smile too wide. "Christiana, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Your father was a smart man. Very smart." He paused, letting the words settle. "Perhaps too smart for his own good."

She stared at him until his smile faltered.

"Excuse me," she said, and walked away.

She found herself standing in front of the closed caskets at the far end of the hall. Two polished wooden boxes side by side. Her parents. She had identified their bodies at the hospital, signed the forms, chosen the caskets from a catalog. She had done everything required of her. But she had not cried.

Not once.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. She was twelve, standing in the kitchen doorway while her parents argued about money. Her father's voice had been cold and clipped. Her mother's had been sharp, defensive. Christiana had learned early that love in their house came with conditions. Good grades. Perfect behavior. No mistakes.

Another memory. Sixteen. Her mother adjusting Christiana's dress before a company gala, her hands rough and impatient. "You represent us tonight. Don't embarrass us." Not a single word about how Christiana looked or felt. Only what she represented.

She blinked, and the memories dissolved.

Behind her, the murmurs grew louder. She could feel eyes on her back, watching, waiting for her to break. They wanted tears. They wanted a scene. They wanted proof that she was human.

The noise pressed in from all sides. Fake condolences. Cruel whispers. The rustle of expensive fabric and the clink of jewelry. It built and built until her hands curled into fists at her sides.

She turned and walked toward the wall where her parents' portrait hung. It was a large photograph, professionally done, her mother and father seated together with stiff smiles. They looked successful. Untouchable. Perfect.

Christiana reached up and pulled it from the wall.

The room went quiet.

She held it for a moment, staring at their faces. Then she dropped it. The frame hit the floor with a loud crack, glass shattering across the tile. People gasped. Someone shouted. But Christiana did not stop. She lifted her heel and brought it down on the portrait, crushing it further.

"Ugly," she said.

Then she turned and walked toward the exit.

Voices erupted behind her. Shock. Outrage. Someone called her name, but she did not look back. She pushed through the doors and stepped outside.

Rain poured from the sky in heavy sheets, soaking her within seconds. The cold hit her like a slap, but she stood still, letting it wash over her. Her dress clung to her skin. Her hair came loose from its tie. Water ran down her face, and for the first time in three days, she felt something other than numbness.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.

Footsteps approached from behind, slow and deliberate. Then the rain stopped hitting her face. She opened her eyes and looked up.

An umbrella blocked the downpour. A man stood beside her, holding it over both of them. He was tall, maybe late twenties, with dark hair and sharper features. His suit was expensive, perfectly tailored, and somehow still dry despite the storm.

He looked at her with an expression she could not read. Not pity. Not judgment. Something else entirely.

"Christiana Vale," he said. It was not a question.

She stared at him, rain dripping from her chin. "Who are you?"

His mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. "Julian Frost.”