Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the PodiumThree days later, the rain poured over Oakridge Memorial Cemetery like a heavy curtain of grief. Black umbrellas filled the manicured lawn as mourners gathered around a polished mahogany casket. Inside sat sixty pounds of heavy stones and a sealed coffin—a staged funeral for a woman whose body was supposedly lost to the abyss of Glacier National Park.
At the podium stood Brandon Prescott, wearing a tailored black Armani suit. He wore an expression of masterclass devastation, dabbing a dry corner of his eye with a white silk handkerchief.
"Victoria was... light," Brandon choked out, his voice trembling with rehearsed sorrow. "She loved the mountains. She loved nature. Even though her final moments were filled with terror up there on that ice, I take comfort in knowing she’s at peace. And... and our unborn child with her."
A collective murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd. Standing in the front row, draped in a designer mink coat, was Gretchen Vance—Brandon's executive assistant and secret lover. She kept her head bowed, playing the role of the sympathetic colleague, though a sharp observer might have noticed the subtle, triumphant smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
Fifty million dollars, Gretchen thought, watching the weeping relatives. The insurance payout is already processing. We won.
"If anyone would like to say a few words," the pastor offered gently, stepping back from the microphone.
Before Brandon could step down, a sharp, metallic screech echoed from the cemetery gates.
All heads turned.
A sleek, matte-black Bentley Continental GT rolled slowly up the wet asphalt drive, its headlights cutting through the dreary gray rain. The engine cut out with a heavy thud.
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Brandon froze, his hand gripping the edge of the podium so hard his knuckles turned white. Gretchen’s breath hitched in her throat.
The rear door of the Bentley swung open. A single Christian Louboutin heel stepped out onto the wet grass, followed by the hem of a tailored white trench coat.
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