The devil's wife

“She didn’t even cry.” “They say she leaked the files that ruined him.” “Look at her. Standing there like she’s the widow and the executioner.” That was how the whispers began, soft, poisonous, and sharp enough to cut through the sound of the priest’s voice. I didn’t turn. I had learned long ago that looking back only gave them satisfaction. Instead, I stood still beneath a sky so heavy with unshed rain that it felt like even God was holding His breath. The air smelled like lilies, cologne, and hypocrisy. They were all here. The shareholders, the vultures, the press hiding behind umbrellas and they were all pretending to mourn the great Adrian Cross. My husband, the world’s golden boy, and, apparently, my victim. I held a single white rose in my gloved hands. My fingers ached from gripping it too tightly, but it was the only way to keep myself from shaking. I’d spent weeks preparing for this day. To have the right look, the right silence and the right performance, because no matter how hard I tried, no one believed I was innocent. I could feel their eyes on my back like knives. I was the widow who didn’t cry. The woman who had it all, then destroyed it, and then, through the blur of black coats and umbrellas, I saw him. Damian Cross. Even after three years, I knew that walk. That deliberate, controlled and lethal walk. Damian was Adrien's older brother. The heir who had walked away from the family empire, from me and from everything. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been leaving for London with ice in his eyes and a warning I didn’t understand. Now he was back. His gaze found me instantly, sharp and unrelenting. I felt it slide over me, the way it always used to. Back then, it had made me feel seen, but now, it made me feel stripped bare. He didn’t look like a man in mourning. He looked like a verdict dressed in black. The priest’s voice faded to a low hum as I laid the rose on Adrian’s coffin. My throat was so dry. “Goodbye,” I whispered, not because I meant it, but because the cameras expected it. When I stood up straight, Damian was gone. I slipped away from the crowd and into the burial place. The marble walls gleamed in the half-light and the silence was pressing in around me. I rested my hand against the cold stone, just to feel something solid. I told myself I could do this. That I could face the whispers, the stares and the guilt. But I hadn’t prepared for him. His voice came from behind me, low and controlled. “I expected tears.” I closed my eyes. Of course he would find me here. Damian always had a way of appearing where I least wanted him to. “And I expected you to stay in London,” I said without turning. He laughed once with no humor in it. “You really thought I’d miss my brother’s funeral? Even for you?” I turned to him, slowly, while my veil caught the light as it shifted. He stood a few feet away, too composed and still. The black suit, the sharp jaw and the storm in his eyes were all the same, only colder. “Did you come to grieve or to accuse?” I asked. His gaze dropped to my mouth before lifting again. “Maybe both.” “I didn’t kill him, Damian.” His expression didn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw did. “You were the only one who could have leaked those files. Don’t insult me by pretending you don't know.” I took a step forward, “You think you know everything, don’t you?” He leaned in, “I know Adrian trusted you. I know you betrayed him, and I know you’ll regret it.” “Is that a threat?” “No,” he said. “A promise.” The air between us was electric and charged with too many things we had never said. His cologne had a hint of cedar, smoke and memory, and I hated the way my body still remembered him. “Careful, Damian,” I whispered. “People might mistake your obsession for grief.” His eyes flickered and then he smirked. “You always were good at pretending.” He brushed past me so close that the edge of his sleeve grazed my arm and left a trail of heat. He stood at the doorway and paused. “You killed my brother, Sera,” he said softly. “And I’m going to make sure you pay for it.” Then he was gone. I stood there for a long time because my pulse was still racing. The sound of rain was finally breaking through the silence outside. The first drops of rain tapped against the marble, steadily and patiently, like the start of something inevitable. I pressed my palm to the cold wall, my reflection was pale and hollow. He thought I killed Adrian, the world thought I had too. But the truth? The truth was worse than anything they could imagine because Adrian Cross wasn’t just the man I’d married. He was the lie that had destroyed us all.