He was dressed impeccably, as if this were a business event rather than his wife’s funeral. Dark tailored suit, polished shoes, posture straight. The kind of composed exterior that might have passed for strength if not for the woman standing beside him.
Marissa Cole.
No one needed to whisper her name. It had already been whispered enough.
She looked uncomfortable in a way that couldn’t be disguised—her heels slightly unsteady on the damp floor, her gaze fixed downward, her hand hovering awkwardly at her side as though unsure where it belonged. Ethan placed his hand lightly against her back, guiding her forward with a familiarity that didn’t belong in that room. That single gesture—small, almost casual—shifted the atmosphere entirely.
Lena’s sister, Tessa, stiffened near the front row. I saw her jaw tighten, her hands curl into fists at her sides. Their mother let out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, more like something breaking internally. Their father didn’t move, but his shoulders sank just slightly, as though the weight of everything had just doubled.
Ethan and Marissa sat in the front row. Together.
