Her Daughter's Funeral, Their Wedding Night

The heavy oak doors of the funeral home yielded to Elenora Carlson's weight.

A brutal gust of October wind immediately sliced through the thin fabric of her coat, biting into her collarbone. She didn't shiver. Her body had forgotten how to feel cold.

Elenora looked down at her chest. Her arms were wrapped tightly around a small, white ceramic urn. It was so small. Too small to hold a four-year-old girl who loved strawberry ice cream and chasing butterflies. The ceramic was freezing against her sternum, but she pressed it harder into her skin, hoping the physical pain would ground her.

She took a step down the concrete stairs. Her legs trembled violently. She hadn't eaten in four days. Her stomach was a hollow, aching cavern, but the thought of food made bile rise in the back of her throat.

She reached the bottom of the steps and looked up. The parking lot was completely empty. There were no cars. No mourners. No flowers. No one had come to say goodbye to Poppy.

The silence of the asphalt triggered a violent flashback. The screech of tires tearing against pavement echoed in her ears. The smell of burning rubber and hot copper blood filled her nostrils.

Elenora blinked, and the empty parking lot was replaced by the chaotic intersection. She saw the shattered windshield glass glittering on the road like crushed diamonds. She saw Delphine Vance standing next to the crumpled hood of her luxury SUV. Delphine hadn't had a single scratch on her. She had just stood there, looking down at the wreckage, a faint, chilling smirk playing on her flawless lips.

Then, Donovan Montgomery IV had arrived.

Elenora's chest tightened so hard her ribs ached. She remembered the sound of Donovan's frantic footsteps. She had been kneeling in a pool of Poppy's blood, screaming for help, her hands slick and red.

Donovan had sprinted right past her. He hadn't even looked at the dying child on the asphalt. He had rushed straight to Delphine, wrapping his arms around her, checking her pristine face for injuries.

Elenora remembered grabbing the hem of Donovan's tailored trousers, begging him. Please. Save her. Save Poppy.

He had shoved her away. The force of his hand against her shoulder had sent her sprawling into the broken glass. The glass had sliced her palms open, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the sound of Poppy taking her last, gurgling breath.

Elenora blinked again. The parking lot returned. Her tears had dried up days ago. Her tear ducts felt like sandpaper. She adjusted her grip on the urn and started walking.

She crossed the empty lot, her cheap flat shoes scraping against the pavement. She walked across the two-lane highway, ignoring the blare of a passing truck's horn. She didn't stop until her feet hit the sand of the beach.

The Atlantic Ocean roared in front of her, a massive expanse of churning gray water under a leaden sky.

Elenora kicked off her worn flats. The sand was like crushed ice against her bare soles. She didn't care. She walked toward the shoreline, the wind whipping her long, unwashed hair across her face.

She stopped at the edge of the water. She bowed her head and pressed her dry, cracked lips against the smooth lid of the ceramic urn.

"I'm coming, Poppy," she whispered. Her voice was a raspy croak. "Mommy is coming."

She took a step forward. The freezing saltwater washed over her ankles. The cold was a physical shock, a thousand needles driving into her skin, but she welcomed it. It meant she was still alive enough to die.

She took another step. The water reached her calves. The undertow pulled at her, trying to drag her back to the shore, but she leaned forward, fighting the current.

The water rose to her knees. Her jeans grew heavy, clinging to her legs like lead weights. She didn't stop. She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, holding the urn high against her chest.

A massive wave crested in front of her and crashed down, slamming into her waist. The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. The icy water soaked through her coat, chilling her organs.

She closed her eyes. She stopped fighting the current. She let her body tilt forward into the abyss.

The ocean swallowed her whole. The water rushed over her head. The freezing dark filled her ears, drowning out the sound of the wind. She opened her mouth, and the saltwater flooded her throat, burning her lungs. The darkness consumed her.

Across the country, sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows of a magnificent Gothic cathedral in Manhattan's Upper East Side.

Donovan Montgomery IV stood at the altar. He wore a custom-tailored Tom Ford tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked down at Delphine Vance. She was breathtaking in a haute couture lace gown, a sheer veil draped over her innocent face.

But Donovan's chest felt tight. A strange, heavy knot sat in the pit of his stomach. He looked at Delphine's smile, but he felt nothing. No joy. No anticipation. Just a hollow ringing in his ears.

The priest stood before them, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceilings. "Do you, Donovan Montgomery IV, take Delphine Vance to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Donovan opened his mouth. His throat felt dry. He forced his jaw to move. "I-"

The heavy wooden side doors of the cathedral slammed open with a deafening crack.

Donovan's head snapped to the right. His executive assistant, Linden Hayes, was sprinting down the center aisle. Linden's face was the color of ash. He shoved past a security guard, his chest heaving.

Gasps rippled through the pews. Delphine turned, her perfect smile faltering.

Linden didn't stop until he reached the altar steps. He ignored the priest. He ignored Delphine. He grabbed Donovan's arm, his fingers digging into the expensive wool of the tuxedo.

Linden leaned in, his breath ragged against Donovan's ear. "Sir. The police just called. They found a body washed up on the beach. It's Elenora."

Donovan's pupils dilated. His heart stopped beating for one agonizing second. The air was violently sucked out of his lungs.

His fingers went numb. The platinum diamond wedding band he was holding slipped from his grasp. It hit the marble floor with a sharp, piercing clink, rolling away into the shadows.

"Donovan?" Delphine reached out, her manicured fingers brushing his sleeve. "What's wrong?"

Donovan looked at her hand. A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit him. He shoved her hand away. He didn't say a word. He turned his back on the altar, on the priest, on the hundreds of guests.

He broke into a sprint. He ran down the aisle, his polished shoes slipping on the marble, bursting through the cathedral doors into the blinding sunlight, his chest tearing open with a grief he didn't know he possessed.

Elenora gasped.

Her eyes snapped open in the darkness. She shot up into a sitting position, her mouth open wide, sucking in massive gulps of air. Her lungs burned as if they were still expelling saltwater. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She grabbed her throat. It was dry. She wasn't drowning.

She looked around wildly. The moonlight filtered through a small, square window, illuminating a cramped room. A narrow twin bed. A cheap wooden desk. A faded wool rug.

This wasn't the ocean. This wasn't the afterlife. This was her old bedroom in the servant's quarters of the Montgomery estate.

Elenora raised her hands, holding them up to the moonlight. They were smooth. The jagged, ugly scars across her palms from the broken glass of the car crash were gone. Her skin was young, unblemished.

She pressed her unscarred hands against her face, feeling the heat of her own skin. She was alive.