Chapter 1: The Funeral of a Stranger
The rain in Oakhaven didn't fall; it mourned. It was a relentless, icy drizzle that turned the cemetery soil into a hungry, black mire.
Lovina stood fifty yards away from the gathered crowd, her body pressed against the rough bark of a centuries-old willow tree. The sweeping branches acted as a veil, hiding her from the world that believed she was already six feet under. She pulled the collar of her worn trench coat higher, the fabric chafing against the faint, jagged line of a burn scar that snaked up the side of her neck—a permanent souvenir of the night her life ended.
In the center of the clearing stood a polished mahogany casket. It was draped in white lilies—symbols of purity and innocence.
How ironic, Lovina thought, her fingers curling into a tight, white-knuckled fist. They are burying an empty box, but I am the one who is dead.
Her gaze shifted to the man standing at the head of the grave. Julian.
Even through the grey haze of the rain, he looked breathtakingly broken. His shoulders, usually so broad and confident, were hunched as if the weight of the sky was resting on them. He wasn't wearing an overcoat, and his black suit was soaked through. He looked like a man who had lost his sun and was now wandering in a permanent winter.
Then, she saw her.
Elena stood at Julian's side, a vision of performative grief. She wore a designer black lace veil that partially obscured her face, but Lovina didn't need to see her eyes to know what was behind them. She watched as Elena reached out, her gloved hand sliding intimately into Julian's. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her body a parasitic weight.
A year ago, Elena had been Lovina's maid of honor. She had held Lovina's hand during her morning sickness. And then, she had set the fire.
"You're doing it, aren't you, Elena?" Lovina whispered, her voice a ghost of a sound that was swallowed by the wind. "You're stepping into my life before the dirt even hits the wood."
The priest began to speak, his voice a low drone about "life being a vapor" and "souls returning to the Creator." Lovina didn't listen. Her mind was a slideshow of fire. The smell of smoke. The sound of her unborn baby's nursery door jamming. The heat that felt like it was melting her very soul while Elena watched from the driveway, her face illuminated by the flames—not with horror, but with a terrifying, calm satisfaction.
As the ceremony ended, Julian stepped forward. He placed a single red rose on the casket. His lips moved—a final goodbye he thought he was saying to his wife.
Lovina felt a sharp, agonizing pull in her chest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run through the mud, throw herself into his arms, and tell him she was right here. She wanted to tell him that their child's death wasn't an accident.
But she stayed still.
If she went to him now, Elena would win. Elena would play the victim, find a way to finish the job, or hide her tracks. No. To destroy a woman like Elena, Lovina couldn't just return. She had to haunt her.
As the crowd began to disperse, Elena led Julian toward a waiting black car. Just before she stepped inside, Elena paused. She looked back toward the willow tree, her eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat, their gazes almost locked.
Lovina didn't flinch. She stood like a statue of vengeance.
The car door slammed shut. The engine purred. They drove away toward the Thorne Estate—the house that used to be Lovina's sanctuary, but was now a fortress she would have to siege.
Lovina stepped out from behind the tree. She walked to the edge of the open grave, looking down at the mahogany lid.
"Rest well, Lovina," she said to the empty air. "Because I'm not coming back as a wife. I'm coming back as a nightmare."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, charred scrap of a baby blanket—the only thing she had salvaged from the nursery. She dropped it onto the casket.
"Your husband is mine, Elena. I'm just coming to collect."