Chapter 2

The funeral was a somber affair, a sea of black suits and quiet murmurs. My mother' s casket was closed, a spray of white lilies draped over the dark wood. Each sympathetic glance felt like a lie. They saw me as the grieving daughter, the beloved wife of the great Brayden Quinn. They didn' t see the woman who was suffocating.

Brayden stood beside me, a pillar of strength for the cameras, his hand a heavy weight on the small of my back. A perfect, grieving son-in-law.

Then, I saw her.

Katharina Christensen, walking toward us, her face a mask of sorrow that didn' t reach her cold, calculating eyes. She was dressed in a ridiculously expensive black dress, more suited for a cocktail party than a funeral.

My blood turned to ice.

"What is she doing here?" I hissed at Brayden, my voice low and venomous.

He squeezed my back, a silent warning. "Behave, Amelia. People are watching."

Katharina stopped in front of us. "Amelia, I am so, so sorry for your loss. Your mother was a wonderful woman."

The hypocrisy was breathtaking.

"Get out," I said, my voice shaking with rage.

She feigned shock, placing a hand over her heart. "I just came to pay my respects."

"You want to pay your respects?" My voice rose, drawing a few curious looks. "Get on your knees, Katharina. Get on your knees right here on this cold floor and beg my mother for forgiveness. Forgiveness for the life you and your family destroyed. Forgiveness for my father."

A gasp went through the small crowd gathering around us.

Katharina' s eyes flashed with anger before the mask of grief slipped back into place. She looked at Brayden, a damsel in distress.

"Brayden, I..."

"Amelia, that' s enough," Brayden said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He was protecting her. Here, at my mother' s funeral, he was protecting his mistress.

"Enough?" I laughed, a sharp, broken sound. "It will never be enough. I want her gone."

He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear. "Do not make a scene. We will discuss this at home." The words were a threat.

Katharina gave me a small, triumphant smirk over Brayden' s shoulder. She had won. She always won.

I stared at the white lilies on the casket, my heart a cold, dead weight in my chest. I couldn' t fight him here. I couldn' t give him the satisfaction.

"Fine," I whispered, the word a surrender.

He straightened up, his public face back in place. "Katharina, perhaps it' s best if you go," he said, his voice gentle. He was letting her off the hook.

He took her by the elbow and walked her away, murmuring something I couldn' t hear. The crowd watched them, their whispers following the couple. They probably thought he was a saint, handling his hysterical wife with such grace while comforting a family friend.

The irony was a bitter pill.

I turned away, unable to watch them. I felt completely alone, an island of genuine grief in an ocean of performance. The rest of the service passed in a blur. I didn' t hear the eulogy. I didn' t feel the sympathetic pats on my shoulder. My mind was a blank, numb space.

Afterward, Brayden drove us home in silence. The tension in the car was a living thing. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

He finally broke the silence as we pulled into our driveway. "We need to talk about what happened today."

"There' s nothing to talk about."

"You embarrassed me, Amelia. You embarrassed yourself."

He parked the car but didn' t turn off the engine. He turned to me, his face hard. "I knew your mother for years. I cared for her."

The lie was so bald-faced, so insulting, it almost made me laugh. I thought of him, years ago, eating my mother' s homemade stew in our tiny apartment, telling her he' d always take care of her daughter. Promising her the world.

"You cared for her?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. "Is that why you let her die?"

His eyes flashed. "Don' t be ridiculous. That' s not what happened."

"Isn' t it?"

Before he could answer, a truck, its headlights off, came screaming around the corner. It was moving impossibly fast.

I only had time to scream his name.

The impact was violent, a brutal crunch of metal and shattering glass. My head slammed against the side window. Pain, white-hot and blinding, exploded through my abdomen.

The world spun. I tasted blood.

"The baby," I gasped, clutching my stomach.

The car had been thrown onto the sidewalk, the driver' s side crushed. Brayden seemed mostly unharmed, shielded by the bulk of the engine.

He looked at me, his eyes wide with something I couldn' t read. Fear? Annoyance?

His phone rang. The screen lit up with a picture of Katharina.

He answered it.

"Are you okay?" he said into the phone, his voice tight with concern. "Where are you? Stay there. I' m coming."

He unbuckled his seatbelt.

I stared at him, my mind struggling to process what was happening. Pain was radiating through me in waves. Blood was spreading across my dress.

"Brayden, don' t," I pleaded, my voice weak. "Help me. Please."

He looked at me, his face a cold, emotionless mask. He looked at the blood staining my dress. He looked back at my face.

And then he got out of the car.

He didn't even look back. He just started running down the street, disappearing into the darkness, leaving me alone in the wreckage.

The abandonment was more painful than the crash. It was a final, brutal confirmation of what I already knew. I was nothing to him. The baby was nothing. Only Katharina mattered.

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the blood. I fumbled for the door handle, but it was jammed. The pain in my stomach was getting worse, a sharp, tearing sensation.

A man walking his dog ran up to the car window. "Miss, are you okay? I' m calling 911!"

"Please," I sobbed, my voice barely a whisper. "My husband... he left me. Please, you have to help me. My baby..."

The world started to fade at the edges. Black spots danced in my vision. The man' s voice became distant, muffled.

The last thing I saw before I passed out was the empty street where Brayden had been. He was gone. Utterly and completely gone.