"Thank you." The words are automatic. Meaningless.
He moves on. Another takes his place. Same damp hands. Same empty words. Same eyes calculating what my father's death means for their portfolios.
I've shaken thirty-seven hands in the last hour.
I know because I've been counting to keep from screaming.
Sergei's somewhere behind me. I can feel him. That prickling awareness at the back of my neck that hasn't stopped since Mexico. He's stationed near the side entrance, close enough to reach me in seconds, far enough to blend into the shadows like he belongs there.
Which he does.
The Wolf in the cathedral, watching sheep pretend to grieve.
I glance back just once. Our eyes meet across the sea of black suits and crocodile tears. He doesn't nod. Doesn't smile. Just holds my gaze with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
I see you,those grey eyes say.I'm here.
I turn back to the receiving line before someone notices the heat climbing up my neck.
The priest drones about eternal rest and God's plan, like God gives a shit about Manhattan's elite. I stop listening. My gaze drifts to the stained glass windows, light filtering through in jewel tones that paint the marble like blood.
Dad used to bring me here when I was little, before Mother decided it was too pedestrian for Davenports. He'd point at the saints and make up ridiculous stories, turning them into superheroes, fighting dragons.
I was six and believed every word.
I'm twenty-nine and he's dead.
"Isabelle." Mother materializes at my elbow, all ash-blonde perfection and Chanel No. 5. Her grip on my arm is firm enough to bruise my arm through the Valentino. "Stop looking like you're about to commit murder. People are watching."
"People are always watching." I keep my voice low. Controlled. "That's what you taught me."
"I taught you toperformfor them. Not stand there like a wounded animal, waiting to be put down." She adjusts an invisible flaw in my hair. The gesture looks maternal. It feels like a warning. "Your uncle Matthew wants to speak with you after the service. Be gracious."
"I'm always gracious."
"You're always sharp. There's a difference." Her blue eyes, identical to mine, are glacial. "Today is not the day for sharp, Isabelle. Today is the day for grieving daughter. Play the part."
She glides away before I can respond.
I watch her go, cataloguing every detail the way Dad taught me. The perfect posture. The dry eyes. The way she works the room like this is a cocktail party, instead of her husband's funeral.
She knew.
The certainty from last night hasn't faded. If anything, it's hardened into something cold and sharp at the center of my chest.
My mother knew my father was going to die.
And now she's telling me toplay the part.
A hand closes around my upper arm. Too tight. Too familiar.
I turn.
Uncle Matthew smiles down at me with all the warmth of a shark sensing blood. He's wearing Tom Ford because of course he is. Perfectly tailored to hide the vulture underneath. He's been orbiting the family business for twenty years, ever since Aunt Irina died. Always helpful, always circling. Those dead brown eyes. The way he looks at me like I'm a stock option he's considering exercising.
"Isabelle." His voice drips with manufactured sympathy. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm upright. That's about all I can promise."
