Not slowly. Not respectfully. Not even pretending to mourn. He strode down the aisle like he was arriving at a celebration, not a funeral.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his hair neatly styled. On his arm was a young woman in a bold red dress, smiling far too confidently for someone standing in front of a coffin.
The room shifted. Whispers spread. Someone gasped. Even the priest paused mid-sentence.
Ethan didn’t care.
“Traffic downtown is terrible,” he said casually, as if he’d just walked into brunch.
The woman beside him glanced around curiously, as though she were exploring a new place. As she passed me, she slowed—almost as if she might offer sympathy.
Instead, she leaned close and whispered, cold as ice:
“Looks like I won.”
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