The sound sliced through the mournful organ hymn like a serrated blade tearing through wet silk.

Every head in the congregation snapped toward the heavy oak doors at the back. Black wool suits stiffened.

A row of white lilies quivered violently in their iron stands, as if offended by the vibration. There he stood. Evan Vale. My son-in-law.

His polished oxfords gleamed under the stained-glass light, a heavy gold watch flashing at his wrist as he casually adjusted his tie.

But it was his left hand that ignited the acid in my veins. It rested—possessive and relaxed—at the narrow waist of the woman who had systematically dismantled my daughter’s marriage.

Her name was Celeste Marrow.

She wore a mourning dress that clung to her like a second skin, a veil of black netting doing absolutely nothing to obscure the triumphant gleam in her eyes.

Her stilettos clicked against the ancient stone floor of the church—sharp, rhythmic, and merciless.

It sounded exactly like applause after a perfectly executed crime.

I stood beside the coffin, my hands clasped so tightly before me that my knuckles ached with the strain.

Behind me, the elderly women from my neighborhood murmured frantic, breathless prayers, their faces hidden behind dark, gloved hands.