VERONICAThe church smelled of lilies, beeswax, and staged grief. Exactly as I intended.Public mourning is not about loss. It’s about narrative. A memorial mass, done properly, is less a sacrament than a press release. Today, the Mancinis would reclaim our story.The nave glittered with candlelight, rows upon rows of flames licking the shadows into submission. The marble floor had been scrubbed until it gleamed, reflecting gold from the chandeliers. The front pews were filled with society’s darlings—judges, councilmen, wives in pearl collars, journalists pretending not to be. Cameras hovered discreetly in the balcony, red lights winking like watchful eyes.Perfect.I’d chosen the music myself: strings low and reverent, voices swelling in Latin. Old words for a new lie.**********************************Hannah sat two rows to my left, draped in black crepe and restraint. Veil shadowing her face, hands folded at her waist, head inclined just so—enough to look fragile, not enough to loo
ปรับปรุงล่าสุด : 2025-10-21 อ่านเพิ่มเติม