Chapter 2 - THE FUNERAL FIVE YEARS AGO
Five years earlier, Adrian Blackwell had stood beside a coffin beneath a gray November sky.
Rain soaked his black coat.
Reporters waited beyond the gates.
His lawyers stood behind him.
His son, Daniel, held tightly to his father's hand.
The funeral had been private.
Only close family.
Only trusted friends.
Only people Adrian believed he could trust.
Inside the coffin was Elena.
Or so he believed.
The official story was simple.
Elena had been driving home from one of the family's hotels when another vehicle crossed the center line.
The collision destroyed both cars.
The fire was so intense that identification became difficult.
But dental records had confirmed the victim was Elena.
The police report was signed.
The insurance claim was approved.
The body was released.
Adrian had never questioned it.
Why would he?
He had identified her through the personal jewelry.
The ring.
A necklace.
A small scar on her hand.
Everything had seemed real.
He had buried her with the ring because he couldn't bear the thought of her being separated from the only object he had given her that carried both of their initials.
After the funeral, Adrian fell apart.
He stopped working.
He stopped sleeping.
Their young son became withdrawn.
Daniel asked one question repeatedly.
“When is Mommy coming home?”
Adrian never had an answer.
The person who helped him through those first months was Elena's older sister, Marianne.
She told him:
“You must accept that she is gone.”
“You must live for Daniel.”
“You must protect the family.”
And Adrian did.
For five years.
He expanded the company.
Raised Daniel.
Built new hotels.
Made the family empire stronger.
But every anniversary of Elena's death, he returned to the cemetery alone.
He would stand beside her grave for hours.
He would touch the stone.
Then whisper:
“I still miss you.”
Now, standing in the restaurant, Adrian remembered something.
On the day of the funeral, Marianne had insisted that the coffin remain closed.
She had said the injuries were too severe.
Adrian had accepted it.
He had been too broken to argue.
And suddenly, the memory felt wrong.
Adrian returned home that night and opened every old file.
Police report.
Autopsy.
Medical identification.
Insurance.
Burial record.
One document was missing.
The original autopsy report.
He called the hospital.
They said it had been transferred to a private archive.
He called the archive.
The file number existed.
But the record had been removed.
Adrian's hands began trembling.
He called his attorney.
“Find out who accessed this file.”
An hour later, the answer came.
The authorization had been issued five years earlier.
By someone named—
Victor Hale.
Adrian knew the name.
Victor had been his business partner at the time.
A man who had later disappeared after a financial dispute.
A man Elena had openly distrusted.
Adrian pulled out an old photograph.
Victor.
Marianne.
And Elena.
All standing together at a charity event.
On the back, Elena had written something in blue ink:
I don't trust either of them.
Adrian had forgotten the note.
Now he couldn't.
His phone rang.
It was Lucas.
Adrian answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Where is your mother?”
“She lives outside the city.”
“Give me the address.”
There was silence.
“Why?”
“Because I think your mother may be my wife.”
Lucas stopped breathing.
“What?”
May you like
Adrian closed his eyes.
“And I think both of us have been lied to.”
