3. The Billionaire’s Funeral

The black Maybach arrived at Greenwood Cemetery with the silent authority of a hearse, its glossy paint reflecting the leaden sky like a mirror to the gloom. Evie Monroe—no, Evelyn Voss now—sat motionless in the back seat, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure the driver could hear it.

Outside, the wrought-iron gates loomed like the entrance to another world, draped in heavy black crepe that fluttered in the damp breeze. Greenwood was the final address for New York’s most powerful dead, and today it had never looked more alive with the wrong kind of energy. Hundreds of mourners crowded the rolling lawns in perfect rows of tailored black suits and designer mourning dresses.

Politicians whispered in clusters, CEOs checked their watches, and A-list celebrities adjusted their oversized sunglasses. Security formed a human wall, but the press still swarmed beyond the velvet ropes, cameras clicking like hungry insects.

Evie’s hands trembled in her lap as the driver opened the door. The custom Givenchy gown she wore was a masterpiece of darkness—midnight silk that skimmed her body like liquid shadow, with delicate Chantilly lace at the neckline and sleeves that whispered with every breath. It had been delivered at dawn with a team of stylists who treated her like fragile porcelain.

Reginald Thorne had stood by, issuing instructions. “Head high but eyes down. Let them see grief, not fear. You are the widow the world will remember.”

The veil attached to her elegant chignon fell like a soft curtain over her face, hiding the terror in her green eyes and the flush of guilt on her cheeks. Beneath the gown, her skin still prickled from last night’s encounter in the study—the shadow in the mirror, tall and watchful, gone the instant she turned. Kael’s portrait had seemed to smirk at her afterward. Was he here now? Watching from some hidden vantage point while she buried a man who wasn’t dead?

She stepped onto the gravel path, Louboutin heels sinking slightly into the soft earth. The scent of fresh lilies and wet grass filled her lungs. Every eye turned toward her. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.

“That’s her? The secret wife?”

“She looks so young.”

“Kael kept her hidden for a reason…”

Evie kept her pace slow and measured, exactly as Thorne had rehearsed. The mahogany casket rested on a raised platform draped in black velvet, surrounded by towering arrangements of white roses, orchids, and calla lilies that must have cost more than her old apartment’s yearly rent. It was closed. Empty. A beautiful lie wrapped in gold hardware. No body. No wreckage. Just polished wood hiding nothing but air and the biggest deception Manhattan had ever seen.

The priest began the service, his voice amplified and solemn, echoing across the graves. “We gather here today to bid farewell to Kael Alexander Voss—visionary, leader, son, and husband. Taken too soon in a tragic accident that has left us all diminished…”

Evie positioned herself at the head of the casket, gloved hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ached. She stared at the gleaming wood and let the tears come. They weren’t forced. She thought of her mother—now resting in a private suite at Mount Sinai with the best oncologist in the country smiling at her bedside. No more waiting rooms. No more choosing between medicine and food. Fifty million dollars sat in her new account, already working miracles. But the price was this: standing here pretending to mourn a stranger whose cold gray eyes from the portrait had somehow burned themselves into her soul.

A single tear traced down her cheek. She stepped forward, the rose in her hand trembling. White, pure, perfect. She laid it gently on the casket lid, her voice cracking just enough for the hidden microphones to catch.

“Goodbye, my love,” she whispered. “I’ll carry you in my heart every single day.”

The crowd murmured approval. Some women dabbed their eyes. Cameras flashed.

Then the temperature around her dropped.

Victoria Voss glided forward, silver-streaked hair swept into an impeccable chignon, diamond brooch glinting like a blade at her throat. Kael’s stepmother was elegance weaponized—beautiful in the way ice sculptures are beautiful: flawless, cold, and capable of cutting you open without effort. Her pale blue eyes locked onto Evie with surgical precision.

“Such touching words, Evelyn,” Victoria said softly. Close enough for the scent of her expensive perfume to wrap around Evie like a noose. “One might almost believe you truly knew my stepson. Tell me, dear… where exactly did you two meet again? Kael was always so private about his personal life. Especially the last six months.”

Evie kept her head bowed, veil hiding the flash of panic.

Thorne had prepared her for this.

“In Santorini,” she answered, repeating the scripted lie. “A private villa. He wanted it secret. He said the world already took too much from him.”

Victoria’s smile never reached her eyes. “How romantic. And yet none of his closest friends ever mentioned you. How… convenient.”

Before Evie could respond, another presence closed in on her other side. Damien Voss—Kael’s cousin, thirty-two, sharp-jawed and slick-haired—moved like a shark sensing blood. His Tom Ford suit was tailored to perfection, but the smile he wore was all teeth and no warmth. Pale blue eyes, the same shade as Victoria’s, glittered with something far more dangerous than grief. Everyone in the Voss circle knew Damien had been salivating for the CEO chair until the plane crash changed the boardroom math.

He leaned in, so close that his breath brushed the edge of her veil. The crowd was still watching the casket descend on its mechanical platform, the priest’s final prayer rising in the air. No one noticed the way Damien’s hand brushed her elbow—possessive, testing.

“You’re not a real widow, are you?” he whispered, meant only for her ears. The words slid into her like ice. “Because I’ve been watching you, Evelyn. And something about this whole performance… doesn’t add up.”

The white rose slipped from Evie’s suddenly numb fingers. It tumbled forward, falling into the open grave with a soft, final thud that echoed louder than any scream.

Evie’s blood turned to ice as the casket began its slow descent into the earth.

***