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Become The Widowers Wife

The Scars She Hid From The World

REGINA MCBRIDE

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Modern Revenge Scheming

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"He killed her."

That whisper cut through the chapel. sharp, thin, and once it was out there, it couldn't be unsaid. No one turned. Not all the way, anyway. Grief demanded you keep yourself together, and keeping yourself together meant pretending you didn't hear things that made the room feel colder.

"They all die," someone muttered. "Every single one of them."

A man next to the speaker hissed, "Angela, keep your voice down."

"Why?" The first voice didn't drop. "Everyone's thinking the same thing."

Eloise Laurent heard every word, though. Her hand tightened on her handbag until the leather squeaked, but she let go before anyone noticed. She kept her face forward, her expression calm, like she belonged there in all that black silk and polite mourning.

She didn't.

She wasn't family. Not a friend. No invitation. She was just curiosity dressed up for a funeral.

Up front stood Cassian Blackmoor. The man rumor had turned into something part flesh, part ghost story. He stood beside the coffin of his latest dead wife.

Closed lid. White roses. Silver handles so shiny they caught the candlelight and shook it like nerves. The whole setup looked intentional, elegant, and expensive.

So did he.

His suit fit perfectly, like it'd been sewn just for him. Broad shoulders, straight back, hands at his sides, still in a way most people never are unless they've practiced. Black hair slicked back, jaw set. not in anger, not in grief, just steady. Controlled.

He didn't look strong.

He looked worn out in a way sleep couldn't fix.

The priest talked quietly about peace and mercy, about how death wasn't really the end. The words drifted around, light as smoke. Nobody clung to them.

Eloise didn't listen. She watched Cassian.

She didn't mean to. She couldn't help it. Something about the way he stood pulled her attention. Not wrong, not guilty. something stranger. Like gravity bent toward him, like the air itself played by different rules around him.

Another mourner leaned in close: "I heard the last one fell down the stairs."

His companion whispered back, "This one, they said it was fever."

Eloise didn't turn. The voices didn't matter. The words did.

Every single one.

Her eyes went back to Cassian. Seventeen marriages, people whispered. Seventeen funerals. All different stories. Accidents, sickness, bad luck, fate. Patterns hide themselves well.

The priest's voice softened. "Please stand."

Chairs scraped. Fabric rustled. Somewhere behind her, a woman sobbed, too raw for a room this careful. Someone hushed her. Someone sighed.

Eloise stood with the rest.

Cassian didn't move.

Not when the prayer ended. Not when the first mourner stepped forward. Not when the condolences started up, soft and practiced.

A gray-haired man squeezed his shoulder. Nothing.

A woman dabbed at her eyes and tried to say something kind. Cassian didn't nod.

A younger man gripped his arm. Cassian didn't blink.

It wasn't indifference. It was something else, like he'd locked away something dangerous and thrown out the key on purpose.

Eloise's pulse thumped once, hard, in her throat.

She should've been scared.

But really, she just felt aware.

She noticed his stillness, the way people gave him space, the heavy air around him, as if it pushed back when you got too close.

One by one, mourners left, their whispers trailing out with them.

Eloise stayed put.

Leave, she told herself.

Her feet wouldn't obey.

The last mourner stepped away. Silence settled.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Eloise stepped into the aisle.

Her heels made a single, soft click on the floor. She shifted her weight and tried to walk more quietly. She went to the coffin first because that's how it's done.

A photo stood on an easel. The dead woman smiled behind the glass. Bright eyes, smooth skin, beautiful in that permanent, untouched way only pictures manage.

Eloise met that smile for a moment.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, not sure who she was talking to, or why.

Then she turned to him.

Up close, Cassian was worse.

Not scary.

Just present.

He was tall enough that she had to tilt her chin up, and his presence hit her like warmth from a fire she hadn't noticed until she was too close. He kept his eyes down, somewhere over her shoulder, refusing to see her or anyone else.

Eloise swallowed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said, keeping her voice low.

She made sure it didn't waver. That mattered to her.

Cassian didn't respond.

She wondered if he'd even heard. Then his fingers curled at his side, just once, slow and careful, like he'd caught himself before anything could slip.

Her stomach dropped.

He saw her.

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