“We let him step up to the altar,” Arthur continued softly. “We let him reach out and touch the money. And then, we drop the guillotine.”
A nurse entered the room carrying a garment bag. She unzipped it, revealing a flowing, midnight-black maternity gown. It was elegant, funereal, and undeniably powerful.
I slipped into the dark silk, the fabric cool against my battered skin. I refused the makeup the nurse offered to cover my face. I wanted the scar visible. I wanted it to be the first thing Carter saw.
Arthur held out his arm. “Are you ready to claim what is yours, Audrey?”
I looked at my scarred reflection one last time, feeling the baby kick strongly against the black silk. “I’m ready to watch him burn.”
Chapter 4: The Resurrection
The Denver Cathedral was an architectural masterpiece of vaulted ceilings, towering stained glass, and suffocating hypocrisy. The scent of hundreds of white lilies—my favorite, naturally—cloyed the air, mixing with the damp smell of winter coats.
I stood in the heavy shadows of the narthex, hidden behind the massive, iron-reinforced oak doors that separated the foyer from the main sanctuary. Arthur stood beside me, a silent monolith of power, his hand resting gently over mine on his arm. Through the crack between the doors, we had a perfect view of the altar.
The church was packed. Carter’s business associates, my former friends, local politicians—they were all there to witness the tragic finale of the grieving widower. Carter stood at the podium, dressed in a bespoke black suit, his head bowed. He dabbed at his eyes with a pristine white handkerchief.
“She was my compass,” Carter’s voice echoed through the microphone, engineered to sound thick with unshed tears. “Audrey was the light of my life. To lose her, and our unborn child, to such a tragic, freak accident… it is a darkness I fear I will never escape.”
From the front pew, wearing a respectfully modest black dress but unable to entirely hide a self-satisfied smirk, sat Sienna.
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