The air was thick with perfume, secrets, and whispers.
Adanna stood still, numb in her black silk dress as the casket was lowered into the ground. Her veil fluttered in the breeze, shielding the emotion — or lack of it — in her eyes.
To the world, she was a grieving widow.
To herself, she wasn't sure what she was anymore.
Around her, mourners sobbed. The media stood at a distance, eager to snap photos of "Malcolm Reid's beautiful young widow." Billionaire. Innovator. Tragic accident.
Only… Adanna had one problem.
The man in the coffin wasn't Malcolm.
She had seen the body. She had identified it — or pretended to. But under the sheet, it hadn't been her husband's face. It had been a stranger's.
Yet she said nothing.
Because hours before the police brought her the body, she received a note shoved under her door:
"Keep quiet. You weren't supposed to see what you saw."
Now, as dirt thudded over the casket and tears soaked into black lace, Adanna forced herself to cry.
Not for Malcolm.
But for the mess she was now buried in.