Chapter 3
My funeral was held three days later. It was a lavish affair—Damian made sure of that.
White lilies filled the cathedral. A string quartet played Debussy in the corner. Over three hundred guests attended, most of them Damian's business associates who couldn't have picked me out of a lineup if their lives depended on it.
Damian stood at the podium in a perfectly tailored black suit. His eyes were rimmed red—whether from eye drops or genuine emotion, I couldn't tell anymore.
"Arabella was the love of my life," he said into the microphone, his voice cracking at just the right moments. "She was kind, generous, selfless. Even in death, she gave the gift of life to another. That... that was who she was."
The audience murmured sympathetically. Several women dabbed their eyes.
I wanted to vomit.
My mother sat in the front row, barely conscious. My father held her upright, his own face carved from stone. He stared at Damian with an expression I'd never seen before—something between suspicion and barely contained fury.
After the service, Damian received condolences like a gracious host at a dinner party. He shook hands, accepted embraces, nodded solemnly at whispered platitudes.
Then my father approached him.
"I want the accident report," Dad said quietly. No preamble. No small talk.
Damian blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"The police report. The full one. Not the summary they gave us over the phone."
"Richard, I don't think now is the time—"
"My daughter is dead." Dad's voice didn't waver. "Now is exactly the time."
I saw it—the barely perceptible tightening around Damian's eyes. The micro-expression of a man who hadn't expected resistance.
"Of course," Damian said smoothly. "I'll have my attorney send everything over. You know I want answers just as badly as you do."
Dad didn't respond. He simply turned around and walked back to my mother.
But I knew my father. He was a retired detective. And he didn't believe in coincidences.
That night, Damian visited Sienna in the hospital. Her recovery was progressing remarkably well—almost too well, according to the nurses.
"The funeral was exhausting," Damian groaned, loosening his tie as he sank into the chair beside her bed. "Keeping up appearances with three hundred people watching is not easy."
Sienna reached over and ran her fingers through his hair. "Poor baby. Was the old man suspicious?"
"Richard? He's a retired cop. He asked for the accident report."
"And?"
"And nothing. The report is clean. I paid good money to make sure of that." Damian caught her hand and kissed her palm. "There's nothing to find."
Sienna smiled. "Good. How long before we can go public?"
"Six months minimum. I need to play the grieving widower. After that, we stage a reconnection—old friends supporting each other through tragedy. People love that narrative."
"Six months of sneaking around?" Sienna pouted.
"Six months, then we have everything. The estate, the company shares, the insurance payout—all of it. Arabella's parents can't contest the will. Everything was in my name."
Everything was in his name. He was right about that.
When I married Damian, I trusted him completely. I let him handle our finances, our properties, our investments. I signed whatever he asked me to sign.
White lilies filled the cathedral. A string quartet played Debussy in the corner. Over three hundred guests attended, most of them Damian's business associates who couldn't have picked me out of a lineup if their lives depended on it.
Damian stood at the podium in a perfectly tailored black suit. His eyes were rimmed red—whether from eye drops or genuine emotion, I couldn't tell anymore.
"Arabella was the love of my life," he said into the microphone, his voice cracking at just the right moments. "She was kind, generous, selfless. Even in death, she gave the gift of life to another. That... that was who she was."
The audience murmured sympathetically. Several women dabbed their eyes.
I wanted to vomit.
My mother sat in the front row, barely conscious. My father held her upright, his own face carved from stone. He stared at Damian with an expression I'd never seen before—something between suspicion and barely contained fury.
After the service, Damian received condolences like a gracious host at a dinner party. He shook hands, accepted embraces, nodded solemnly at whispered platitudes.
Then my father approached him.
"I want the accident report," Dad said quietly. No preamble. No small talk.
Damian blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"The police report. The full one. Not the summary they gave us over the phone."
"Richard, I don't think now is the time—"
"My daughter is dead." Dad's voice didn't waver. "Now is exactly the time."
I saw it—the barely perceptible tightening around Damian's eyes. The micro-expression of a man who hadn't expected resistance.
"Of course," Damian said smoothly. "I'll have my attorney send everything over. You know I want answers just as badly as you do."
Dad didn't respond. He simply turned around and walked back to my mother.
But I knew my father. He was a retired detective. And he didn't believe in coincidences.
That night, Damian visited Sienna in the hospital. Her recovery was progressing remarkably well—almost too well, according to the nurses.
"The funeral was exhausting," Damian groaned, loosening his tie as he sank into the chair beside her bed. "Keeping up appearances with three hundred people watching is not easy."
Sienna reached over and ran her fingers through his hair. "Poor baby. Was the old man suspicious?"
"Richard? He's a retired cop. He asked for the accident report."
"And?"
"And nothing. The report is clean. I paid good money to make sure of that." Damian caught her hand and kissed her palm. "There's nothing to find."
Sienna smiled. "Good. How long before we can go public?"
"Six months minimum. I need to play the grieving widower. After that, we stage a reconnection—old friends supporting each other through tragedy. People love that narrative."
"Six months of sneaking around?" Sienna pouted.
"Six months, then we have everything. The estate, the company shares, the insurance payout—all of it. Arabella's parents can't contest the will. Everything was in my name."
Everything was in his name. He was right about that.
When I married Damian, I trusted him completely. I let him handle our finances, our properties, our investments. I signed whatever he asked me to sign.