Chapter 5: The Funeral That Set Me Free

The next morning, I woke before dawn out of habit. For several seconds, I lay beneath the blankets listening to the penthouse. Usually, I would already be in the kitchen measuring Ethan's ingredients, checking his calendar, and arranging his morning before he opened his eyes. Today, I stayed in bed.

At six-thirty, cabinet doors opened. Something crashed. My body almost moved automatically, but I looked at the half-packed suitcase beside my bed and remained still.

Ethan appeared at my door with his tie loose and irritation in his eyes. "Where's the coffee?"

I looked at him. "Make it yourself."

His expression hardened. "You're still doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything to you, Ethan. That's the point."

I zipped my suitcase. "I'm leaving for a while."

"Because of one argument?"

"No. Because I finally understand that what I called a marriage was mostly me maintaining your life while you tolerated my presence."

He brought up James again. I told him James had been dead for years and was not responsible for the man Ethan had chosen to become. Then I walked out before Ethan could turn the conversation into another accusation.

I rented a small furnished apartment across the city. For the first time in three years, I bought groceries without checking Ethan's diet. I slept past sunrise. I stopped carrying his schedule in my head. The quiet felt unfamiliar, but it also felt like mine.

Ethan called twice during the first week. I ignored both calls. On the eighth night, shortly after midnight, his attorney called instead.

There had been an accident on the coastal road near the Hamptons. Ethan's car had gone through a barrier and burned before emergency crews could reach it. His watch and personal effects had been recovered from the wreckage.

I sat on the edge of my bed, unable to breathe.

Whatever I had decided about our marriage, death was different. Death erased the possibility of anger, explanations, divorce, and the tiny irrational hope that one day Ethan might understand what he had done.

The funeral was held four days later. The chapel overflowed with business partners, relatives, reporters, and people who had once competed for five minutes of Ethan Blackwood's attention.

Olivia arrived dressed in black. She looked pale enough to disappear into the winter light. Ethan's mother immediately pulled her into an embrace.

I stood several feet away and watched everyone comfort Olivia as though she were the widow.

Even at my husband's funeral, I remained in the background.

After the service, Olivia approached me. "He cared about you, Amelia. He just didn't know how to show it."

I stared at her. "You don't get to explain my husband to me."

Her eyes filled with tears. "I never wanted this."

"Which part? Hurting me? Taking my journal? Or having him choose you every time?"

She flinched but said nothing.

I returned to the penthouse that evening. Ethan's shoes were still beside the entryway. His coffee beans remained in the cabinet. A charcoal suit hung ready in the wardrobe.

I opened the refrigerator and found meal containers labeled in my handwriting. For years, I had prepared his future one breakfast at a time. Now there was no future to prepare.

I sat on the kitchen floor and cried until my throat hurt. I cried for James, for Ethan, for myself, and for the woman who had spent three years believing endurance was another word for love.

Two weeks later, Ethan's attorney delivered preliminary estate documents. Most of the corporate assets were frozen pending formal identification and probate. Several recent transactions required review because I was still his legal spouse.

One payment caught my attention: a large transfer to a private medical clinic in Switzerland three days before the accident.

I kept reading.

There were payments to specialists, a private aviation company, a villa near Lake Geneva, and a security service. Then I found a payment routed through a holding company to a private marriage registrar.

My grief went strangely quiet.

A dead man did not need a villa in Switzerland.

A dead man certainly did not need a marriage registrar.

I asked for copies of every transaction Ethan had authorized during the final month of his life. His attorney hesitated, but legally he could not refuse me.

I spent the night following company names, dates, and addresses. Near dawn, I found a cached photograph from the clinic's social page. White flowers decorated a private wing. Several staff members stood near the entrance.

In the far corner was a man shown only in profile.

Dark hair. Straight posture. One hand in his trouser pocket.

My heart stopped.

I knew that silhouette better than I knew my own.

I enlarged the image until the pixels blurred.

Ethan.

Alive.

I stared at the screen while memories of the funeral tore through me—the empty coffin, his mother's sobs, condolences whispered into my ear, and the night I had cried on the kitchen floor for a man who was breathing somewhere else.

My husband had not died.

He had made me believe he had.

And somewhere in Switzerland, Olivia Parker was with him.

I closed my eyes, but no tears came.

Something colder than grief settled inside me.

Ethan had faked his death.

Now I intended to find out why.