Chapter 3
William's funeral was nothing short of extravagant.
The Zamora family needed a grand send-off to cover up the shame and dirt hidden behind that so-called "accident."
Inside the funeral home, the heavy sound of somber music filled the air. Mountains of white wreaths piled up, each one silently mocking the occasion.
Ethan stood at the entrance, dressed in a sharp black suit and black armband, his face carefully composed with just the right amount of grief as he greeted the mourners.
Patricia stayed close by, dabbing at her dry eyes with a handkerchief.
They told everyone William had died of a sudden heart attack. Despite all efforts, he couldn't be saved.
They did not mention the blackout in the hospital that night.
The family acted like seasoned actors, each playing their part in this over-the-top performance, clinging to the last shred of the Zamora family's reputation.
I stood silently before the memorial, dressed in plain black with no makeup, quietly watching William's lifeless face.
My face was blank as I lost in thought.
Guests drifted in and out, some offering looks of sympathy, others full of curiosity, but Patricia and Ethan made sure the focus stayed on the extravagant funeral ceremony.
Just then, a stir at the entrance caught everyone's attention.
It was Whitney.
She was wearing a perfectly tailored white dress, a sheer black veil draped over her shoulders. Her makeup was subtle but refined, with a hint of red at the corners of her eyes, giving her a delicate look.
The moment she appeared, every eye in the room turned toward her.
Patricia hurried over like she'd just found her lifeline. She grabbed Whitney's hand, her eyes brimming with concern.
"Whitney, why did you come? It's freezing outside," Patricia said.
Whitney's voice quivered with emotion. "Patricia, I couldn't not come. I had to say goodbye to William. He's been there for me since I was little, always treating me like his own daughter."
She spoke as though she were already the Zamora family's chosen wife for Ethan.
Guests began to whisper.
"Isn't that Whitney, the pianist? I heard she's the one Ethan really loves."
"What about Helena? This must be so awkward for her."
"Look at Mrs. Zamora. She's treating Whitney better than her own daughter-in-law."
Surrounded by Patricia and a crowd of onlookers, Whitney made her way toward me.
She stood beside me gracefully, like she was making an entrance on stage.
With a practiced expression of sympathy, Whitney reached out and took my hand. Her touch was warm. Her nails gleamed with clear polish, a sharp contrast to my cold, dry fingers.
"Helena, I'm so sorry for your loss. Ethan's been heartbroken these past few days that he can barely eat. You really need to take care of him," she said.
She spoke as if she were already the lady of the house, advising an inexperienced maid.
My gaze shifted to her slender wrist.
There, she wore a limited-edition Cartier bracelet.
It was the exact same bracelet Ethan had given me for my birthday.
He once said it was one of a kind, just like I was supposed to be.
It turned out that his idea of "one of a kind" was just something he could hand out to anyone.
I ignored Whitney, pulled my hand away, and continued to mourn William.
My silence seemed to make her lose interest.
She stood up and moved over to Ethan, effortlessly straightening his crooked tie.
Ethan took her hand, and in that instant, all the grief disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a look of gentle affection.
*****
Guests slowly left one by one.
Only a few of us remained in the funeral home.
Ethan finally dropped the act and leaned wearily against Whitney's shoulder.
Whitney patted his back gently, speaking in a soft, soothing tone. "It's okay, Ethan. You'll get through this. You still have me."
Patricia sat off to the side, watching them with a satisfied smile, as if this was the perfect family moment she had always dreamed of.
They were the ones who looked like a real family of three.
Meanwhile, I stood there, just another shadow in the background, my presence as insignificant as the cold, black-and-white photo of William at the center of the hall.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, careful not to turn on the flash, and pointed it at the scene. I started recording.
What I saw on my screen was a slap in the face to the dead.
Ethan quickly caught a glimpse of the faint glow from my phone. His eyes flashed with irritation and a flicker of guilt.
He shoved Whitney aside and lunged toward me, his teeth clenched as he reached for my phone.
"Helena, what the hell do you think you're doing?" he said in a low voice.
I calmly slipped my phone back into my pocket, stood up, and met his gaze.
His bloodshot eyes weren't filled with grief but with guilt and self-indulgence.
I held his angry stare and smiled.
It was the first time I'd smiled since this nightmare began.
But it wasn't a warm smile. It was cold and sharp.
"What's the matter?" I asked, my voice low, but clear enough for everyone to hear.
"Are you afraid your dad's up there, watching you get all cozy with another woman at his own funeral?" I demanded.
His face turned a deep red, his hand freezing in mid-air, trembling with rage. But guilt kept him from making a move.
"Helena, don't go too far," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"You think I'm going too far?" My smile grew sharper, a spark of twisted delight lighting up my face. "Ethan, this is just the beginning.
"Just wait. I've got worse planned."
I turned around, straightened my back, lifted my head high, and walked out of that suffocating funeral home slowly.
Behind me, Whitney's sharp questions and Patricia's frantic curses rang out.
Those sounds followed me like a soundtrack to my revenge, exhilarating and oddly sweet to my ears.