My name is Emily Carter, and there’s one moment I will never erase from my memory—the day my brother-in-law arrived at my sister’s funeral with his mistress wrapped around his arm.

The church in our small Texas town was heavy with the scent of white lilies and low, murmured prayers. At the front sat my sister Lily’s closed casket. She had been thirty-two weeks pregnant when she supposedly “fell” down the stairs. That was Jason’s explanation. A tragic accident. Nothing more.

I never believed him.
When the church doors opened and Jason stepped inside, the tension in the room tightened instantly. He wore a black suit, his expression carefully composed—and beside him was a tall brunette in a fitted black dress, clinging to his arm as if she belonged there.

My mother sucked in a sharp breath. “Is he serious?” she whispered, gripping my hand painfully tight.

“That’s Rachel,” I murmured. I recognized the name from months earlier, when it had flashed across Lily’s phone. “The coworker.”

Heads turned. Whispers spread. Jason acted as though he noticed nothing. He guided Rachel to the front row—Lily’s row—and sat down, letting her lean against him like she was the grieving spouse.

My chest burned. I half-rose from my seat, ready to pull her away, but my father yanked me back down. “Not here, Em,” he warned quietly. “Not during the service.”