HIS LIES,HER FUNERAL

The wine glass trembled slightly in her hand, though her grip was firm. Crimson liquid swirled inside like secrets she couldn’t afford to spill. Outside, the morning sun painted Wyndham Manor gold, but inside, everything had turned a sharp, merciless grey. The silence was oppressive—the kind that held its breath before the world learned something it wasn’t meant to know. Kiera Monroe sat still in the grand drawing room, wrapped in a silk robe far too delicate for the occasion. Her hair clung damply to her neck. Not from the shower. From sweat. From fear. From the adrenaline of what had just happened—or maybe from the release after years of waiting. She stared at the antique clock above the fireplace. 6:47 a.m. Seventeen minutes since Charles Wyndham’s body had stopped twitching. Twenty-two since she had last looked him in the eyes. She hadn’t run. Hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t called anyone. She’d simply walked out of the master bedroom, made her way downstairs, and poured herself a glass of his finest red. It was the bottle he always reserved for guests of international importance. Men like senators, investors, and humanitarians—people who spoke about saving the world while tightening the chains on its most vulnerable. She took another sip. His blood was still on her ankles. The door creaked behind her. “Ma’am,” Rosa, the housekeeper, said softly. Her voice was shaky. “Mr. Wyndham… he’s… is he—?” Kiera turned slowly, eyes unreadable. “Dead.” Rosa gasped, fumbling backward. “Call the police,” Kiera said, her voice cool and even. “Tell them I’ll be waiting.” The house descended into chaos. Footsteps echoed across marble floors, staff members screamed, someone retched in the hallway. Kiera remained seated, the glass now empty, her face unreadable. She didn’t move again until the first sirens split the silence. They arrived with flashing lights and grim expressions. Detective Elijah Rourke, lead investigator from the Metropolitan Homicide Division, entered first. He was tall, stoic, the kind of man whose badge felt heavy with years of experience. He took one look at Kiera—her blood-smeared feet, the pristine white robe, the untouched calm—and narrowed his eyes. “Mrs. Wyndham?” She nodded. “I need you to come with us.” She rose, smooth and unhurried, as if she’d just finished a dinner party rather than watched her husband’s life bleed out onto Egyptian cotton sheets. “I expected you sooner,” she murmured. At the station, they kept her in an interview room that smelled of bleach and secrets. No handcuffs, no threats—just a long table, two chairs, and a pitcher of water. Detective Rourke entered with a quiet intensity and placed a folder on the table. He didn’t open it. “Tell me what happened,” he said. Kiera’s eyes met his, cool as steel. “My husband is dead.” “I know that part.” She leaned back in the chair. “He died at 6:30 a.m. in our bedroom.” “Of a gunshot wound. From a gun registered to your name.” She didn’t flinch. “We found the gun on the floor beside the bed,” Rourke continued. “Your fingerprints were on it. Only yours.” Silence. “Mrs. Wyndham, do you understand the severity of this situation?” She tilted her head. “Yes. You think I killed him.” “Did you?” A long pause. “No,” she said. He tapped the folder gently. “We’ve been watching your husband for months. Offshore accounts, irregular donations, suspected connections to a few blacklisted charities.” Kiera blinked slowly. “Is that so?” “You didn’t report the gunshot. You didn’t try to resuscitate him. You didn’t call for help. You just poured wine and waited.” She didn’t reply. “People don’t react like that,” he said. “People don’t live like I did,” she answered, quiet and calm. Rourke watched her carefully. “Then tell me how you lived.” Kiera folded her hands on the table. “Not yet.” ⸻ They released her on bail that evening, pending further investigation. The press swarmed like locusts outside the station. Cameras flashed, microphones thrust forward, voices screamed over each other. “Mrs. Wyndham, did you kill your husband?” “Why haven’t you spoken publicly?” “Are the rumors true? Was Charles involved in international trafficking?” She walked through them without a word. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. The widow in white, untouched by the chaos. Inside the waiting car, she finally spoke. “To the penthouse,” she told the driver. The penthouse was in the heart of the city—glass and steel, minimalism and money. It had been Charles’s safe space. She hated it. It was where he held meetings with men in dark suits and false smiles. Where she had once hidden in the corner during dinners, smiling perfectly while absorbing every word that passed between billionaires and monsters. Now it was hers. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the skyline fade into night. Her reflection stared back—bloodless lips, hollow eyes, elegance carved from survival. For years, she had been the perfect wife. Silent. Polished. Controlled. Not anymore. In the bedroom, she unlocked a drawer Charles thought she didn’t know existed. Inside: an encrypted flash drive, a burner phone, and a faded photograph. Three girls. Fifteen years old. Standing in front of a building with the words “Viridis Global Center for Girls” engraved on the arch. Kiera stared at the photo. She was in it. She had no memory of the day it was taken. Later that night, she turned on the burner phone. There were no contacts. Just one message, timestamped two years ago: “When he dies, come to Florence. Ask for Julian Graves. –N” She read it three times, then deleted it. She didn’t sleep. Two days later, the funeral was held. Black cars. Black dresses. A sea of grief as fake as the vows she once made. The world wept for Charles Wyndham—visionary, humanitarian, beloved entrepreneur. Kiera stood beside the coffin, her face unreadable. The press whispered about her coldness. Her silence. Her elegance. They didn’t know that in her mind, she wasn’t burying a man. She was burying a monster. That night, she flew to Florence. The address led her to a bookstore near Piazza della Signoria. Quaint, ivy-covered, the kind of place meant for tourists and lovers of forgotten poetry. She entered, and the scent of old paper and dust filled her lungs. The man behind the counter looked up. Mid-thirties. Disheveled. Sharp-eyed. “Julian Graves?” He raised an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?” “Kiera Monroe.” He stared at her. Then nodded slowly. “Come downstairs.” The basement was a command center—maps, screens, files, photos with red strings pinned across bulletin boards. Names she recognized. Names she didn’t. Politicians. Clergy. Philanthropists. “This is what Charles was part of,” Julian said. She stepped closer to the wall of faces. Her own was among them. “I don’t remember most of it,” she whispered. “You weren’t supposed to,” he replied. “They erased you.” Her throat tightened. “What was Viridis Global?” “A grooming facility,” Julian said flatly. “They trained girls. Broke them. Molded them into perfect partners for the world’s elite. Project Dove.” Kiera’s fingers curled. “And Charles?” “One of their biggest clients. He didn’t marry you out of love. He purchased you.” The floor tilted. Julian caught her elbow. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Kiera straightened. “No. You’re just confirming what I already knew.” She turned toward the wall again. Toward her own photo. “I want to remember,” she whispered. That night, she dreamed of white rooms and silver chairs. Of a woman with a cold smile whispering, “You belong to the world now.” She woke up screaming. The next morning, Julian gave her a file. “This is Celine Rowe,” he said. “She ran Project Dove. Disappeared ten years ago.” Kiera flipped through the pages. The face in the photos was familiar. “She was my therapist when I was seventeen,” she said softly. Julian nodded. “She used psychology to break subjects down. You were one of the first successful reprograms.” Kiera closed the file. “Where is she now?” “Unknown. But there’s a lead in Prague. A man named Elias Anders. Used to work logistics for The Circle.” “The Circle?” Julian’s eyes darkened. “The syndicate behind all of this. Global. Untouchable. And very much still active.” Kiera stared at him. “Then we touch them.” In Prague, Elias Anders was found dead before they arrived. Poisoned. Message delivered. Kiera stood over his body, fists clenched. “They know I’m awake now,” she said. Julian nodded. “Good.” Back in Florence, Kiera received another message. This time, handwritten and slid beneath the bookstore door. “You were never supposed to remember. But if you continue, it won’t be your funeral. It will be hers. –C” She crumpled the note and burned it. She was done living on her knees. What happens next?