Chapter 9
The air still carried her. That soft jasmine perfume. The faint warmth from her favorite throw blanket still on the armchair. Her vanity was neat, as always. No makeup scattered, no mess. Just that clean, quiet order she liked.
I sat on the edge of the bed. My hand landed on the pillow where she used to sleep, and I pulled it close before I even realized what I was doing. I buried my face in it and inhaled. It still smelled like her hair. Still held the weight of her head. I saw her in flashes. Laughing beside me on lazy Sunday mornings, moaning my name under the sheets, whispering “I love you” in the dark while her fingers traced over my chest. Her stomach had been round then. She used to press my hand over her belly and say, “He knows his father.”
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And I let all that rot. I let her kneel in salt. I watched her fall apart and told myself she’d be fine because Elodie cried louder.
I looked over at the nightstand and saw something sticking out from one of the drawers. I opened it slowly. It was the auction catalogue.
I stared at the glossy pages and flipped through them in silence.
There it was. Every goddamn thing I ever gave her.
The Ferrante heirloom bracelet. The emerald choker I had custom made for her. The white–gold watch she wore to our anniversary. Even the engagement ring I spent six months designing.
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All sold.
All gone.
She wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just hurt. She was done.
She’d let go of me before she ever got into that fucking car. She was saying goodbye long before the flames ate her alive. That auction wasn’t revenge. It was closure. And I didn’t even see it.
I didn’t hear her silence. I didn’t watch her walk away. I was too busy chasing a dying woman. Too blinded by guilt to see that I was standing in the aftermath of my own destruction.
I stared down at the catalogue like it was a funeral program. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a Ferrante.
I just felt like a man who deserved to be haunted.
attended the funeral like a fucking corpse myself. I dragged myself through the cameras, through the crowds, through the bullshit whispers and pitiful stares that came the moment I stepped out of the black car. My suit was wrinkled, my tie loose, and my eyes–my eyes were fucking dead. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t speak. I didn’t shave. I didn’t even breathe unless someone reminded me to.
The chapel was full. Press, mafia allies, old family friends, fake sympathizers, vultures. They all came. They all watched. They all whispered.
Elodie arrived in white lace like this was her goddamn wedding. She cried the moment her heel touched the marble floor. Loud, theatrical sobs that echoed like nails on glass. Her makeup was
He Left Me Pregnant and Gravion
flawless, waterproof, of course. And the second she saw the cameras, her hands started shaking just right. She clung to my mother like some shattered little dove.
I didn’t stand near her.
I didn’t even look in her direction.
I walked past her like she was fog. Sat on the front pew alone and stared at the casket like it might still open. Like Danica might sit up and roll her eyes and say, “Drama much?”
She was in a steel coffin. Closed casket. They couldn’t even prepare the body right. Too burnt Too broken. The priest said she looked peaceful. They always say that when they can’t look the family in the eye.
I kept my jaw locked and my hands on my thighs to keep from shaking. People talked behind me and didn’t even bother to lower their voices.
“Why is he grieving like that?”
“Wasn’t she supposed to marry his brother?”
“Jeremiah never cared for public events before. But here he is, front and center.”
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“Look at him. That’s not a man mourning his brother’s fiancée. That’s a husband without a wife.”
“I heard he never even looked at Elodie during the auction. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Danica.”
I ground my teeth and let the burn in my chest spread. I deserved every fucking whisper. Every goddamn stare.
When they called me up for the eulogy, I stood like my spine was barely holding together. The weight of the room didn’t crush me but the silence did. It was loud. Heavy. It made every step to that podium feel like a march into hell.
I cleared my throat once and looked at the casket.
“She was… Danica was fire.”
I paused.
“She burned through rooms and rules like they meant nothing. She loved hard. Fought harder. And when she smiled, the goddamn world smiled with her.”
I tried to keep my voice cold. I tried to sound like Jeremiah. Detached. Polished. Composed. But then my throat tightened.
“She died not knowing the truth… and now I have to carry that forever.”
My voice cracked.
Just once.
Just enough for the whole damn room to hear the break in it. I clenched the edge of the podium and forced my next words out like bullets.
“She wasn’t just my brother’s fiancée. She was the only woman who ever saw me for what I was, and still stayed.”
I looked down.
Then looked at the crowd. And finally, I looked at Elodie. She was still crying. Still fake–shaking.
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Still rubbing her arms like someone should rush to comfort her.
I didn’t move.
I stepped off that podium and went back to my seat.
And I didn’t say a word the rest of the ceremony.
Because what the fuck do you say at the funeral of the woman you destroyed?
