The first thing I felt was a strong kick in my stomach. The baby was alive. The second thing I saw was an imposing older man sitting in the corner of the room. It wasn’t Carter. It was Arthur Sterling, the billionaire CEO of Vanguard Insurance Group.
What Carter didn’t know—what practically nobody knew—was that Arthur Sterling was my biological father. My mother had a brief relationship with him thirty years ago before he became a titan of industry. We had only recently reconnected, keeping our relationship entirely private at my request while we slowly built a bond.
Carter had just tried to cash in a $50 million policy with my own father’s company. Arthur had flown his private jet to Colorado the moment he got the call from the local police. I told him everything. The policy, the mistress, the push. I expected Arthur to immediately call the authorities and have Carter arrested.
But Arthur is a businessman who built an empire on ruthlessness. He looked at my bruised, battered face and said, “Jail is too easy for a man who tried to murder my daughter and my grandchild. We are going to destroy him publicly.” So, we let Carter believe he had won.
The local police, cooperating with a billionaire’s powerful legal team and federal investigators, issued a vague statement about a tragic hiking accident. Carter played the role of the devastated widower to perfection on the national news. He announced a lavish memorial service back home in Chicago, to be held at the grandest cathedral in the city.
Which brings us to today. The day of my fake funeral. I stood in the cold vestibule of the cathedral, a heavy black veil covering the deep lacerations and frostbite scars on my face. My nine-month baby bump was prominent under my dark mourning dress.
Next to me stood Arthur, his face an unreadable mask of cold, calculated fury. Through the slightly cracked wooden doors, I could hear the priest delivering a heartbreaking eulogy. I peeked through the gap. The church was packed with our friends, family, and his wealthy colleagues.
And there was Carter, standing at the front in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit. He was dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, playing the grief-stricken husband flawlessly. But I could see his eyes darting to the front row, where his assistant Chloe sat, wearing an inappropriately sheer black dress.
They exchanged a subtle, knowing smirk. In the small side alcove near the altar, I could see one of Arthur’s senior executives standing with a silver briefcase. Carter thought he was there to discreetly hand over the $50 million settlement check immediately after the service, a special favor for a “high-profile” tragedy.
The priest finished his prayer. Carter stepped down from the podium and walked toward the side alcove. The church was dead silent, save for the soft sniffling of my mourning mother in the second row.
