She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, careful, deliberate. "My son, Mark, was a perfect young man," she said, voice low but steady. She went on and on about business, about plans to move forward from this tragedy, about the decisions that had to be made now. I had expected her to lash out at me, to accuse me, to make me the villain—but unexpectedly, she didn't.
Her eyes were still red, the skin puffy, but her expression was composed, almost controlled. She hated me, yes, I knew that. But she also cared about the family's reputation, their image, their status. That had always been more important to her than anything else. She probably didn't want to ruin that now, I thought, and a small part of me respected it.
Any word, Mrs. Walton? one of the reporters stepped closer, eager, pressing forward with microphones and cameras. I froze, chest tightening. They didn't care about me. Not really. My loss, my pain, my grief—none of it mattered to them. They wanted a story, a headline, a scandal. Who would rise in the company, who would fall—they wanted it all.
I looked at them, one by one, feeling their eyes drill into me, hungry for a reaction, waiting for a mistake. Some wanted a statement. Some waited for a tremor in my voice or a flinch in my expression so they could bury me with their words.
I let a single tear slip, just enough to satisfy them. I reached for a handkerchief and wiped it away. That's what society expected—a widow broken, fragile, mourning publicly. But inside, the ache was far deeper, a hollow throb of despair and loneliness that no public display could show. I had lost my husband, the one person who had been my anchor, my life. Everything else—the crowd, the press, the performance—was only noise.
"I just lost my husband," I said softly, voice trembling just enough to be believable. "We need time to grieve." My eyes softened, lips slightly parted, showing the sadness they expected. Every movement calculated, every pause timed.
"I have no words at this time," I continued, holding back the lump in my throat. "The pain is so unbearable, but we will continue to move forward." Each word weighed heavily, measured for impact, a careful balance of sorrow and composure. I let the silence hang, letting the cameras catch every second of my performance.
I stepped toward my mother-in-law, inhaling deeply to steady myself. I offered a hug, careful, measured. My body was stiff, tense, but the gesture was smooth, believable. She hugged me back, firm and controlled, but for a moment, I felt a fleeting warmth, a reminder that she was human, too. Then, she whispered, low, dangerous, right in my ear:
"This isn't over yet, Alexa."
Her words sent a shiver down my spine. I froze slightly, letting them settle, letting her presence remind me that even now, I had battles ahead. My face stayed calm, neutral, but my heart thumped hard, my mind alert.
We separated slowly. Her hands fell from my back, her soft cries continuing, the act of sympathy for the cameras. But I knew better. I could feel the careful calculation in her movements, the way she measured each tear, each breath, each gesture. She hated me—but she also wanted to protect the family, their reputation, their image.
I let myself shed one more tear, just enough to look vulnerable, then dabbed it away with my handkerchief. The ache inside was heavier than I could show. Losing Mark had left a void that no act, no public performance, could fill. Every nerve in my body felt raw, every heartbeat a painful reminder of what was gone.
I straightened my back, drawing in a deep breath, feeling the tightness in my chest, the hollow ache in my stomach, the heat behind my eyes. I kept my face calm, my hands steady, my expression measured. The cameras and microphones hungrily focused on me, waiting, watching, eager for any slip.
And then I noticed him—Mark's brother, Robert. He was staring at me, eyes sharp, calculating. My stomach twisted. I could see through the fake frown he wore, the hollow expression of grief he tried to hide. Nobody else would notice, but I did. He was all too excited about his brother's passing.
I remembered all the ways he had always tried to undermine me. The way he wanted to take over the company, how he tried to seduce me, and how he had hated me because I didn't give in. The cold, cruel side of him I had seen before was now hiding behind the perfect mask of sorrow, but I knew. I always knew.
The press didn't see it. They didn't care about it. They only cared about the story, the next headline, the gossip they could spread. But I felt it. The sharp, dangerous energy coming off him, the dark satisfaction lurking behind those controlled features. My chest tightened, my pulse spiked, my fingers curled slightly in instinctive caution.
I swallowed hard, forcing my face back into the calm, mourning widow I had been portraying. I would not let him see that I noticed. I would not let him know that I could see the truth behind his eyes, the cruel, scheming darkness.
And then, without a word, Robert's lips curved into a slow, dark grin. A chill ran through me, cold and sharp, sinking deep into my bones. His eyes locked on mine, full of hidden meaning and deadly satisfaction.
"My condolences, little widow."