"My wife wished to pay her respects," I say smoothly, cutting off whatever recognition might be dawning. My voice carries the kind of authority that's preceded violence, that's left men bleeding out in alleys. "Such unexpected tragedy deserves acknowledgment."
The woman backs away.
The Hewsons arrive like vultures descending on carrion, their black Town Car disgorging them twenty feet from where we stand. Mrs.Hewson's gaze locks onto Emma immediately, calculation sharpening her features into something predatory. My fingers itch for the blade in my jacket, imagining how easily Mrs.Hewson's throat would open, how her blood would pool on her designer shoes.
"Darling!" Mrs.Hewson's voice carries across the cemetery with sweetness that doesn't reach her eyes. "How thoughtful of you to come. Though I'm surprised you remember our little Mariam."
The test begins immediately. I feel Emma's spine straighten against my palm, her body preparing for battle even as she maintains her grieving pose. Christ, the way she rises to meet threats makes me want to bend her over the nearest headstone and show her exactly what her courage does to me.
"Some kindnesses stay with you," Emma says carefully, her intelligence shining through the performance.
Mrs.Hewson grips Emma's arm, her manicured nails digging in hard enough that I see my wife flinch. The marks will bruise, deliberate harm disguised as affection. My jaw clenches,violence coiling in my chest like a spring wound too tight. I've broken fingers for less. Fed men their own teeth for daring to mark what's mine.
"Oh yes," Mrs.Hewson continues, her grip tightening, "remember those lovely tea parties you and Mariam would have? She'd bring you those special biscuits from the kitchen, the ones with lavender?"
A lie. I can see it in the cruel twist of her mouth, the way Mr.Hewson shifts uncomfortably behind her. They're testing what Frances knows, what Emma will agree to, how well she can play this game. The smell of fresh earth mingles with Mrs.Hewson's cloying perfume, making my stomach turn.
Emma tilts her head slightly, her quick thinking saving her. "Mariam's service was always… memorable."
Not agreement, not denial. Smart girl. My clever little liar learning to navigate their traps.
"Indeed." Mrs.Hewson's smile could cut glass. "Such loyalty in servants is rare these days. Don't you agree, Mr.Rosetti?"
"Loyalty is everything in our world, Mrs.Hewson. As are the secrets servants keep about their employers." I let my gaze drift meaningfully to the wooden casket, then back to her now-pale face. "Amazing what they take to their graves. Or don't. I've been known to be very… thorough in extracting information from reluctant sources."
Her face drains of color, fingers loosening their grip on Emma's arm. I watch as her other hand tightens on her purse strap, knuckles going white as fear replaces her earlier confidence. She's processing my words: threat or observation? Both, really. It depends entirely on how stupid they decide to be.
"Speaking of loyal servants," I continue conversationally, "you must sleep so soundly knowing yours have been with you for decades. All those years of accumulated knowledge about your family's… habits. Financial records, personal preferences,those special medications Mr.Hewson takes that aren't exactly prescribed."
Mr.Hewson steps forward, his own fear barely concealed beneath his businessman's mask. "Perhaps we should let the service begin."
"Of course." I guide Emma away from Mrs.Hewson's toxic presence, noting the red marks already forming on her arm. Each mark is a debt I'll collect with interest. "We wouldn't want to delay anyone's final rest. Or hasten anyone else's."
The priest drones through generic prayers while we stand at the graveside. Emma maintains her composure beautifully, Frances's mask perfect, the ideal picture of distant sympathy rather than personal grief. The sound of dirt hitting the wooden casket echoes across the cemetery, each thud like a heartbeat counting down to something breaking. Until the moment everything changes.
Three children emerge from behind another mourner. The oldest maybe eight, clutching the hands of twins who can't be more than four. They wear ill-fitting black clothes clearly borrowed for the occasion, their faces bearing that hollow look of fresh orphans.
"Mama," one of the twins whimpers. "Where's Mama?"
Emma's breath catches, a sound so small only I hear it. Through the veil, I see the tears start to fall, not the decorative tears of performed grief but genuine, soul-deep agony for her friend's children. Emma bleeding through Frances's armor. Her whole body begins to shake against me, trembling like she did on our wedding night but for entirely different reasons.
"Three children," she whispers, broken. "She had three babies and now…"
Mrs.Hewson's head snaps toward us, sensing weakness like a shark scenting blood. Other mourners are starting to noticetoo. Why is the Hewson princess crying so hard for a servant she barely knew?
I don't think. I just move, pulling Emma against my chest, using my body to shield her genuine grief from prying eyes. Her tears soak through my shirt immediately, the heat of them burning through expensive cotton. Her hands clutch my jacket as she tries to muffle her sobs, and fuck me, her complete surrender to my protection makes my cock twitch. I'm sick enough to get harder from her vulnerability, from the way she trusts me completely in this moment.
"I've got you," I murmur against her hair, quiet enough that only she hears. "Breathe, stellina."
"She worked herself to death for them," Emma whispers against my chest, her grief too raw to contain. "Sixteen-hour days, never complaining, just trying to keep them fed and now they're alone and…"
"Shh." I tighten my arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. To observers, it must look like I'm comforting my sensitive wife, overwhelmed by the tragedy of motherless children. They don't need to know she's mourning someone who actually saw her as human. The way she shakes in my arms, needing me not just for protection but for comfort. Christ, when did her tears start feeling like wounds?
The oldest child, a girl with her mother's stubborn chin, stares at Emma with recognition that makes my blood chill. I angle my wife away from the prying eyes.
"Take what time you need," I tell her, keeping her pressed against my chest, feeling every sob vibrate through me. "Let them think you're soft-hearted. Better that than the alternative."
She nods against my shirt, trying to pull herself together. The tears keep falling, and I hold her tighter, telling myselfit's strategy when really her pain makes something crack in my chest.
