THE BILLIONAIRE’S WIDOW CONTRACT

CHAPTER TWO:THE INVITATION LETTER

ZARA’S POV

Across the city, I was pissed about my dying laptop in a small apartment that smelled like burnt coffee. I was surrounded by unfinished paper articles and a cup of cold coffee. I was trying to sort them out and get ready for bed when I heard a knock on my door. I got up and opened the door, but I saw no one. The hallway was empty except for a black envelope resting against the floor. Upon taking a closer look, I saw my name printed on the front in sharp silver ink.

I frowned slightly because there was no sender, no stamp, nothing at all. Something about the letter felt off. It looked expensive and dangerous at the same time. I went back into my apartment and opened the letter. What I saw startled me.

It was a funeral invitation letter of the man I recently wrote an article about, exposing his family for corruption. Immediately after reading the letter, I turned on the TV and saw Damian Vale’s picture, and it was confirmed on the news that he was dead. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I dropped the invitation onto the table like it had burned me. I started pacing back and forth. I kept trying to ignore the news, but I couldn’t. I kept thinking about the sudden death and the letter, the timing, the anonymous delivery. Something felt off. Funerals don’t send invitations like this.

Who could have sent this letter? I kept asking myself. Why me? Why anonymously?

“This has to be a joke.”

I picked up the invitation letter and reread it, and then I remembered the article I published a few days ago. I started becoming paranoid. I think someone wants me to be intimidated or wanted revenge. My stomach tightened.

I made up my mind.

“I think I need to go. I need answers.”

I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing the black envelope sitting on my table like it belonged there.

The next morning, I turned on my phone, and I started seeing news of Damian Vale’s death, and it had spread like wildfire. Every channel, every headline, every conversation. Something about this whole thing didn’t feel real.

I got up, took a shower, and looked for what to wear for the funeral. I couldn’t eat because I didn’t have the appetite.

After dressing, I locked my apartment door and boarded a cab to the funeral. When I arrived at the funeral, the atmosphere was too quiet, security everywhere, people whispering to each other, everyone watching.

Someone among the crowd recognized me and called out to me. Before I knew it, everyone started staring at me strangely. I felt uncomfortable, and I knew it was because of the article I published a few days ago before Damian’s death.

One of the workers walked up to me and guided me to a seat. I sat down. A few minutes passed, and I felt something strange. I felt like someone was watching me. I shifted uncomfortably on my chair. Then I turned slightly, and my heart stopped.

I noticed a man standing at the far end of the hallway, half hidden in the shadows, tall, still, and most shockingly, watching me.

“No…”

This isn’t possible because Damian Vale is supposed to be dead. How come he’s standing right in front of me, staring at me?