Chapter 3 - The Black-Tie ExecutionThe St. Jude Memorial Chapel was packed to capacity. Hundreds of mourners—colleagues, acquaintances, socialites, and reporters—sat in quiet, pious reverence beneath the towering stained-glass windows. At the front of the chapel rested an opulent, polished mahogany casket, draped in white lilies.
In the front row, dressed in an impeccably tailored black Armani suit, stood Michael Carter.
He played the part of the grieving widower with Academy Award-winning precision. He held a white handkerchief to his dry eyes, his shoulders shaking with exaggerated, silent sobs. Next to him stood Ashley, wearing a discreet black dress, her hand resting comfortingly on his arm. Beneath her veil, a triumphant, wicked smirk played across her lips—a look meant only for Michael.
"We are gathered here today," the pastor spoke solemnly from the pulpit, "to bid a tragic farewell to Elena Carter... a mother whose life was cut short far too soon, along with her unborn child."
Michael stepped up to the microphone. He cleared his throat, letting out a heavy, theatrical sigh before looking out over the congregation.
"Thank you all for being here," Michael began, his voice trembling with manufactured grief. "Elena was the light of my life. The days ahead will be... unbearable. But I take comfort in knowing she is at peace. And though our sweet baby was taken before drawing its first breath... I know they are together in heaven."
Murmurs of sympathy rippled through the pews. Ashley lowered her head, hiding her grin against Michael's sleeve.
"As the sole executor of her estate and beneficiary," Michael continued, wiping a fake tear, "I vow to honor her memory by—"
BANG.
The massive iron-wood doors of the chapel slammed open with a force that rattled the stained-glass windows.
A chilling silence instantly swallowed the room. Every head whipped around toward the entrance.
Striding down the center aisle was a terrifying sight. Leading the procession was Dmitri Sokolov, flanked by six towering men in heavy black tactical gear, their faces carved from stone. But it wasn't the guards that made the congregation gasp and freeze in horror.
It was the woman walking beside Dmitri.
Dressed in a breathtaking, custom-fitted ivory and black coat, my posture straight, my head held high, and my right arm resting in a sleek black sling, I walked into the chapel under my own power.
Michael’s face drained of every drop of blood. He gripped the edges of the wooden podium so hard his knuckles turned translucent white. His mouth opened, but no sound came out—only a choked, animalistic wheeze.
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Ashley screamed, stumbling backward into the floral arrangements and sending a massive spray of white lilies crashing to the floor.
"Good afternoon, Michael," I said, my voice cutting through the dead silence of the chapel like a razor blade. "Did you really think it would be that easy to get rid of us?"
