Now, surrounded by lilies and satin, I understood.
My death had not been sudden.
It had been planned.
Part Two: The Grieving Widow
The funeral service was held in the private chapel attached to Blackridge Manor, my family’s estate outside Louisville, Kentucky.
I knew the chapel well. My mother’s memorial had been held there years earlier.
The vaulted ceiling turned every whisper into an echo.
A minister spoke about my generosity, my loyalty, and my commitment to preserving the company my grandfather had built.
Then Victoria approached the coffin.
Her perfume drifted through the narrow seam near my face.
She placed one hand on the lid.
“My darling Ethan,” she said, her voice breaking beautifully. “I don’t know how I’ll live without you.”
Applause would have been inappropriate, but she deserved it.
It was the performance of her life.
She leaned closer.
Her lips must have been inches from my ear.
Then, so softly that no one else could hear, she whispered, “Goodbye, Ethan.”
There was no grief in her voice now.
Only relief.
My heart began pounding.
Surely someone would notice.
Surely the funeral director would see my chest moving.
But the medication had trapped me inside my own body. My heartbeat felt violent to me, yet from the outside, I must have appeared completely still.
Footsteps approached.
A man murmured, “You should step away now, Mrs. Cole. The service is over.”
It was Harrison.
Victoria gave another convincing sob.
Guests began leaving.
One by one, their voices faded.
The chapel doors closed.
Silence settled over the room.
Then Victoria stopped crying.
“Is everyone gone?” she asked.
“Yes,” Harrison replied.
His voice was calm.
Clinical.
The same voice he had used for years while reviewing my medical reports.
A lock clicked.
Then I heard something worse than their words.
I heard them kiss.
Not a quick, frightened kiss.
A slow one.
Familiar.
When they finally separated, Victoria exhaled happily.
“It’s done,” she said.
“Not yet,” Harrison replied. “It’s done when the cremation is complete.”
My entire body screamed to move.
Harrison continued, “There can’t be an examination later. No second opinion. No questions.”
Victoria tapped her nails against the coffin.
“What if the drug wears off too soon?”
“It shouldn’t.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Harrison sighed. “Even if he regains awareness, he won’t regain movement for several hours.”
“And the furnace?”
“It’s already heated.”
The words seemed to drain every bit of air from the coffin.
Victoria’s voice became quieter.
“Once he’s gone, the trust transfers to me?”
“Most of it.”
“And the voting shares?”
“Yours to control until the board meets.”
I understood then.
This wasn’t only about an affair.
It was about Blackridge Bourbon.
My company.
My name.
