Chapter 2: The Wellingtons

By the time Salma buttoned her tailored black suit and fastened a pair of diamond studs, the unmistakable growl of an engine rolled across the estate. She walked to the window just as a bright red convertible swept through the front gates before gliding to a stop at the entrance.

Eby.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Salma's lips. Of course she'd be first.

Arthur's fourth wife had an uncanny talent for making an entrance. Even to her own husband's funeral, Eby carried herself as though the room existed solely to witness her arrival.

Salma slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses before immediately taking them off again. Wearing them indoors would only invite unnecessary comments. She placed them back on the dressing table, smoothed an invisible crease from her jacket, and caught her own reflection in the mirror.

"You can survive two hours," she murmured to herself.

By the time she stepped into the grand parlor, conversations softened almost instantly. It wasn't obvious enough to be called silence, but it was enough for her to notice.

"Good morning, Salma."

"My deepest sympathies."

"You've been so strong."

She accepted every greeting with the same composed smile, thanking each person before moving farther into the room. Years of attending state dinners and corporate events had taught her that grace was often the strongest form of self-defense.

Even so, she could feel their eyes following her.

Brianna sat quietly near the bay window with thirteen-year-old Jade beside her. Her black dress was elegant without trying too hard, and her makeup had been kept deliberately understated. Every now and then, she glanced toward the hallway before catching herself and lowering her eyes to the teacup resting in her hands.

Of everyone present, Brianna looked the most convincing in her grief.

Salma remembered how overjoyed Arthur had been when Brianna announced her pregnancy. For months, he'd spoken about nurseries and family holidays with a hope she'd never seen in him before. The paternity results had quietly buried those dreams.

Beside her sat Hilda, Arthur's newest widow.

One hand rested protectively over the gentle curve of her pregnant belly while the other cradled a porcelain teacup she barely touched. Whenever another pair of eyes drifted toward her stomach, her shoulders straightened almost instinctively, as though silently daring anyone to question what everyone was politely pretending not to notice.

Then there was Eby.

She occupied the largest sofa as though she'd always belonged there, one manicured hand absently smoothing the fiery curls of the little boy perched on her lap. Every so often she adjusted his tiny black suit or brushed imaginary lint from his shoulders, almost inviting someone to remark on how much he resembled Arthur.

No one did. The silence around the child said far more than words ever could.

A maid appeared carrying a polished silver tray.Tea, coffee, and delicate pastries were offered from guest to guest, accepted out of courtesy, then quietly abandoned untouched. Conversations floated through the room in careful whispers, each one dying the moment it wandered too close to Arthur's name.

Grief was expected. Composure was required. And beneath both lingered a question no one was willing to ask aloud.

Who had Arthur Wellington chosen... and who had he left with nothing?

The quiet hum of conversation was interrupted by the sound of another car pulling into the driveway.

Several heads turned instinctively toward the tall windows overlooking the front courtyard.

"Poppy's here," someone murmured.

Salma didn't have to look outside to know it was true. Only Poppy would arrive at a house of mourning dressed in imperial purple.

A few moments later, Arthur's second wife swept into the parlor with the same effortless confidence she carried everywhere else. Her flowing gown was embroidered with delicate gold thread that shimmered beneath the crystal chandelier, drawing just enough attention without appearing accidental. It wasn't black. It wasn't even close.

Salma couldn't help wondering whether Poppy had stood before her wardrobe that morning debating which shade of purple looked least inappropriate for a funeral.

If she had, she'd clearly settled on the one that made the loudest statement.

Trailing behind her were her five boys—Isaac, Armani, Josh, and the ten-year-old twins, Andrew and Andre. The boys greeted relatives politely before scattering into small groups, their youthful chatter briefly filling the room with a welcome distraction from the heavy silence.

Salma watched them for a moment before lowering her eyes.

The room gradually grew fuller as more relatives filtered inside, their conversations blending into a low murmur that never quite rose above respectful volume. Every now and then, someone's eyes drifted toward the grandfather clock before quickly looking away, as though checking the time too often might betray the real reason they were all there.

Another pair of luxury vehicles rolled through the gates.

Christy and Kristen.

The fifth and sixth wives emerged almost in perfect synchrony, dressed in nearly identical black dresses despite arriving in separate cars. Over the years they'd developed an oddly inseparable friendship, attending charity functions together, vacationing together, and, if family gossip was to be believed, living remarkably similar lives in almost every respect.

Their children followed close behind, instantly claiming the last empty seats around the room.

Diva arrived a few minutes later.

Unlike everyone else, she made no effort to perform grief.

She walked in wearing a simple black designer dress, oversized sunglasses resting atop perfectly styled hair, and greeted the room with the relaxed confidence of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove. Arthur had once joked that Diva was the only woman he'd ever married who negotiated the terms of their marriage before accepting his proposal.

She'd wanted freedom. He'd wanted companionship and neither had pretended it was love.

"There you are," Diva said warmly as she crossed the room.

Salma rose to hug her.

"I'm glad you came."

Diva smiled.

"I wouldn't have missed Arthur's final surprise for anything."

The words were light, but Salma caught the flicker in her eyes.

Diva was curious too.

By the time Salma returned to her seat, every chair in the grand parlor had been occupied. Eight wives, a room full of children and alifetime's worth of carefully guarded secrets.

She let her gaze travel slowly around the room.

Some faces were anxious, some were hopeful while others had perfected the expression of grief so well that even Salma couldn't tell where the performance ended and the genuine emotion began.

Then the grandfather clock began to chime.

The conversations gradually faded until the only sound left in the room was the measured rhythm of the clock announcing the hour.

Ten o'clock.

Almost as if he'd been waiting for the final chime, footsteps echoed through the hallway outside.

Every head turned as the double doors opened. Barrister Dash entered first, dressed in an immaculate black suit, a worn leather briefcase tucked neatly beneath one arm.

He wasn't alone.

Salma's mother was with him.

For the first time that morning, the silence felt absolute. Poppy's practiced smile disappeared. Eby slowly lowered her teacup without taking a sip. Brianna unconsciously straightened in her chair, while Hilda instinctively rested both hands over her stomach.

No one had expected Arthur Wellington's first wife to walk through those doors.

Not after twenty years. Salma rose to her feet before she realized she was doing it.

Her mother looked exactly as she remembered—elegant, composed, and carrying herself with the quiet confidence of a woman who had once ruled this house. Time had softened neither her beauty nor her presence.

She had been Mrs. Wellington long before any of the women seated in that room. Their eyes met across the parlor before they hugged.

With the faintest nod, her mother acknowledged her before taking the seat Barrister Dash pulled out beside him. The old lawyer placed his briefcase on the polished mahogany table and slowly adjusted his glasses. His gaze swept across the room, lingering on each face just long enough to confirm no one was missing.

"I believe everyone is here," he said evenly and rested one hand on the briefcase.

"Shall we begin?"