Chapter 3 - The Grieving Husband
Through the screen of my father’s iPad, I watched Adrian give his first television interview.
He looked devastatingly handsome. He wore a sharp black suit, his tie slightly loosened to give the impression of a man unraveling from grief. He hadn't shaved in two days—a calculated aesthetic choice.
“Elena was my heart,” Adrian told the reporter, his voice cracking perfectly on the last syllable. He touched the corner of his eye, wiping away an invisible tear. “She fought such a brave battle with her mental health. I only wish I could have saved her.”
I felt a surge of nausea, followed instantly by hot, righteous anger.
He was rewriting my entire existence. He was painting me as a tragic, broken woman who couldn't handle the pressures of life, all to make himself look like a tragic hero.
The camera panned out to show Celeste standing just off-camera. She was dressed in demure black, holding a clipboard, looking every bit the supportive assistant. But I knew the truth. I knew they were sleeping in my bed, drinking from my wine glasses, celebrating their newfound wealth.
Adrian went on to announce the creation of the ‘Elena Mercer-Vale Foundation for Mental Health.’ He pledged ten million dollars of "our" money to the cause.
“It’s a money-laundering front,” my father noted from across the room, reviewing the foundation's freshly filed tax documents. “He’s using your death to wash the stolen investor money and gain public sympathy simultaneously. The man is a sociopath.”
The cruelty of it almost made me laugh. For six years, he had spoken over me. He had signed legal documents for me, claiming I was too overwhelmed to understand them. He had isolated me from my friends.
Now, he planned to edit my death, turning my murder into his ultimate PR campaign.
The next day, Dad received a tip from the funeral home. Adrian had chosen my burial dress.
He didn't choose the vibrant red gown I loved, or the elegant silk dress I wore to our anniversary. He chose a plain, high-collared, stifling grey dress. He told the funeral director I had always "preferred silence and simplicity."
He thought I was completely dead.
He thought my secrets were buried under six feet of dirt and a marble headstone.
He didn't know that I had already picked out my own dress for the funeral. A striking, tailored black suit. The kind of suit a woman wears when she is going to war.
May you like
Beneath that black suit, tucked into the inner pockets, I would carry flash drives containing copies of every transfer, every offshore account, and every lie.
Tomorrow, the illusion would end.
