Chapter 2

Ethan snatched his own phone out, his thumb jabbing at the screen.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Andrew? Your father is in surgery!" he yelled the moment the call connected.

Andrew' s voice was just as loud, just as angry. "Oh, so she got you in on it too? Unbelievable. You both can play your little drama games. I' m not falling for it."

"This isn' t a game, you asshole!"

The call ended. Ethan stared at his phone, his face red with rage. "He hung up. He blocked me too."

A cold, calculated calm settled over me. This was working even better than I' d planned.

"Can I... can I borrow your phone?" I asked the nurse, my voice barely a whisper. "I need to try one more time."

She handed it over without hesitation, her eyes full of sympathy. I dialed Andrew' s number from her phone. He answered on the first ring, probably thinking it was someone else.

"Hello?"

"It' s me, Andrew."

A torrent of verbal abuse erupted from the speaker. "Jesus Christ, you' re using someone else' s phone now? You' re insane, Gabrielle! A desperate, pathetic psycho! You know what? I' m done. We' re done! I' m divorcing you! Don' t ever contact me again!"

He hung up.

The small waiting area fell silent. Everyone had heard. A woman sitting a few chairs down, dressed in a sharp business suit, met my eyes. She gave me a small, sympathetic nod before looking away. Then, she stood up, walked over, and discreetly pressed a business card into my hand.

Wendy Chadwick, Attorney at Law. Specializing in Divorce.

I pocketed the card just as the surgeon came out, his face grave.

"I' m sorry," he said, looking from me to Ethan. "We did everything we could. He lost too much blood. Mr. Scott has passed away."

The next day, at the funeral home, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and formaldehyde. Ethan, his face etched with a grief that was turning to stone-cold anger, was making the arrangements with me. He' d handled everything, his sense of duty overriding his own pain.

Suddenly, the doors to the quiet room burst open. Andrew stormed in, his eyes wild, his clothes rumpled.

"Alright, the joke' s over!" he shouted, pointing a finger at me. "You faked my dad' s death to get me to come back? To make me look bad? Where is he?"

Ethan didn' t say a word. He just walked over to a small table where a simple, gray urn sat next to a photo of his father. He grabbed Andrew by the collar of his shirt and shoved him forward, forcing him to look.

"There he is, you son of a bitch," Ethan growled, his voice thick with emotion. "Say hello to your father."

Andrew stared at the urn, his delusional rage finally crumbling, replaced by a dawning, wide-eyed horror.