5

Elena

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into a blur of black fabric and hollow condolences.

Word of Adrian’s “accident” spread fast—faster than it had in my past life, since this time I wasn’t locked away sobbing in my room for three days before anyone thought to inform the extended family.

By six o’clock, the house was crawling with distant relatives, business associates, and the kind of acquaintances who only appear when there’s a will to be read.

I sat curled on the parlor sofa, an untouched cup of tea gone cold in my hands, playing the role I knew better than anyone in this house: the devastated, devoted wife.

“You poor thing,” an aunt I barely recognized cooed, patting my knee. “Married only five years, and already a widow.”

Five years. She said it so casually, with no idea what those five words actually meant—five years of “vitamins,” five years of a marriage built entirely on my inheritance and my blindness. I smiled weakly at her, letting my lower lip tremble on cue.

“Thank you for coming,” I whispered, my voice cracking exactly where it needed to.

Across the room, my mother-in-law held court like a queen accepting condolences, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief that had never once touched actual tears. Every few minutes, her gaze flicked toward me—checking, measuring, making sure I was still playing my part correctly.

I gave her nothing but grief.

Inside, though, something colder was working. While the aunt moved on to my father-in-law, I let my eyes drift around the room, cataloguing.

This house had been my father’s before it was ever “ours.” Every wall, every room, funded almost entirely by the inheritance he left me—and somehow, through paperwork I never thought to question, Adrian’s name was the only one on the deed.

I remembered, vaguely, the way Adrian used to disappear into his study for hours, always locking the door behind him. I never asked why. I was too busy being grateful he trusted me enough to have a “space of his own.”

My mother-in-law’s desk, where she used to disappear with her “medical paperwork,” always waving me off if I offered to help organize it. I’d never questioned that either. Now, knowing what I knew about the rest of them, I wondered how much of that illness had been real at all.

The framed photo on the mantel of Adrian and me on our wedding day, which Vivian was currently standing beside, pretending to admire it with the appropriate amount of sorrow.

She thought she’d already won. That was going to be useful.

“Elena.” Lucas appeared at my side, crouching down to press a glass of amber liquid into my hand. “Drink this. It’ll help settle your nerves.”

My fingers closed around the glass out of pure reflex before my mind caught up. I looked down at the liquid, my pulse spiking.

Whiskey, not milk. Not tonight, then. But the pattern was already starting—the concerned brother-in-law, the helpful drink, the practiced gentleness in his voice. My past life had taught me exactly how this story ended if I let it keep writing itself the same way.

“Thank you, Lucas,” I said sweetly, setting the glass down on the side table without drinking. “I don’t think alcohol will help me think straight tonight. I want to remember everything about today clearly.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, maybe, that I’d declined. He recovered quickly, flashing me that same warm, trustworthy smile that had fooled me for years.

“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

Whatever I need. If only he knew.

Roxy, stationed like a bodyguard at the edge of the room, caught my eye from across the crowd. She hadn’t left my side once since we walked through the door, glaring daggers at anyone who got too close, especially Lucas. I gave her the faintest shake of my head—not yet—and she reluctantly stayed put.

As the last of the distant relatives said their goodbyes, Roxy pulled me aside, her grip firm on my arm.

“I don’t like leaving you here,” she muttered, glancing warily toward my mother-in-law. “Say the word and I’m staying the night.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I need you rested for tomorrow more than I need you standing guard tonight.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded, pressing a kiss to my cheek before heading for the door. “Call me the second anything feels wrong. I mean it.”

My mother-in-law finally dropped the performance the moment the last car pulled out of the driveway, her sorrowful expression sliding off like a mask she’d grown tired of wearing.

“Well,” she said, stretching her neck with an audible crack. “That’s done. Elena, go rest. We have arrangements to discuss tomorrow.”

Arrangements. The funeral, the will, the paperwork Adrian had no doubt already forged in preparation for his disappearing act.

“Of course, Mother,” I murmured, rising slowly from the sofa. I let my gaze sweep once more across the room—Vivian, still lingering by the mantel, still touching that photograph like she was already planning to replace it.

My father-in-law, checking his watch, impatient to be done grieving for a son who wasn’t even dead. Lucas, watching me with quiet, patient interest.

A slow warmth spread through my chest, entirely different from the grief I’d been performing all evening.

Let them think tonight belonged to them. Tomorrow, and every day after, would belong to me.

“Goodnight, everyone,” I said softly, and walked out of the room without looking back.

I closed my bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, finally letting the grief-stricken mask slip from my face.

Adrian was supposedly dead.

His phone had supposedly burned with him in the crash.

But as I stared down at my own phone, a thought suddenly struck me.

What if it hadn’t?

What if Adrian’s phone was still somewhere in this house?

My fingers tightened around my phone.

There was only one way to find out.

I was going to call my dead husband.