Weeks before she died, she had come to my house wearing long sleeves in summer heat.
“I’m just cold,” she had said softly.
But I had seen the hesitation behind her smile.
The carefulness.
The way she kept adjusting her sleeves as if hiding something beneath them wasn’t a choice—it was survival.
“Ethan’s just stressed,” she used to say.
Always that line.
As if repetition could turn damage into normalcy.
As if naming the excuse enough times would make it true.
I had begged her once.
“Come home,” I told her. “Just for a while. You’re safe here.”
She had smiled.
Not happily.
Tiredly.
“It’ll get better,” she said. “Once the baby comes… everything will change.”
I believed her.
Or I wanted to.
And that difference cost me everything.
Back in the church, Ethan dropped into the front pew like he was settling into a theater seat.
The woman in red sat beside him, resting her hand lightly on his arm.
They looked comfortable.
Too comfortable.
Like the coffin in front of them was background decoration.
When the priest spoke the words eternal rest, Ethan actually chuckled.
A small sound.
But enough.
Enough to make several people shift uncomfortably.
Enough to make grief turn into something sharper.
That’s when I saw him.
Michael Reeves.
Emily’s attorney.
He was standing near the side aisle, holding a sealed envelope like it weighed more than paper should.
His expression was calm.
Not cold.
Not emotional.
Controlled.
He walked forward.
Every step measured.
Every movement deliberate.
The church quieted without being asked.
Even Ethan stopped smirking.
Michael stopped at the front.
He looked at the coffin once.
Then at the crowd.
Then said:
“Before the burial proceeds, I am required to carry out a legally binding instruction from the deceased.”
A pause.
Then—
