I murmur something appropriate and continue my rounds, collecting abandoned drink glasses and stray condolence cards.
Sabrina’s performance is reaching its crescendo. As I watch, she suddenly clutches her chest, her face crumpling in a display of fresh grief. She sinks gracefully into the nearest chair, surrounded immediately by a fluttering crowd of concerned mourners.
“It just keeps hitting me in waves,” she cries, her voice breaking perfectly. “One moment I’m fine, and the next, I just can’t breathe thinking about her gone.”
I turn away, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. My grief doesn’t come in photogenic waves. It sits like a stone in my chest, constant and heavy, stealing my breath when I least expect it. But no one wants to see that kind of pain. It’s too real, too messy, too uncomfortable.
Needing a moment away from the performance, I slip down a quiet hallway, past the restrooms to a small alcove where thefuneral home keeps extra chairs stacked against the wall. I lean against the cool plaster, closing my eyes briefly.
The service and reception have drawn a decent crowd, mostly from the neighborhood. Our family was never large to begin with, and distance and time have whittled it down further. If you don’t count the distant cousins, which I never do, it’s only Sabrina I can call family.
“Found a quiet spot, huh?”
My eyes snap open. Maxwell stands at the entrance to the alcove, effectively blocking my exit. His gray eyes move over me in a way that makes my skin tighten with discomfort.
Since I didn’t see him out there with my sister, I honestly thought he’d left. He was meant to be at Sabrina’s side all day, that’s the instruction she gave him before we got here. But the second the Russos showed up, he dissipated like mist on a hot day.
“Just needed a minute,” I say, straightening up, trying to project confidence I don’t feel. “I should get back.”
He doesn’t move. Instead, he steps closer, crowding me against the wall. He smells like expensive cologne and something underneath that turns my stomach—a predatory eagerness that no amount of designer suits can disguise.
“No rush,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Sabrina’s holding court out there. She won’t miss you.” His hand comes up to touch my arm, fingers trailing down to my wrist. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Losing someone makes you realize how much we all need comfort.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, trying to edge sideways past him.
He shifts, blocking me again. His body is now close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. “We could comfort each other, you know.” His fingers squeeze my wrist lightly.
My pulse quickens, but not in a good way. It’s the rabbit-fast heartbeat of prey scenting danger. “Please stop,” I beg, my voicecracking. Bile rises in my throat. “You’re my sister’s boyfriend,” I say as though he has forgotten.
“Sabrina and I have an understanding.” My stomach clenches as his other hand moves to my waist, then slides down to my hip, squeezing the flesh there.
I jerk away from his touch, anger temporarily overwhelming fear. “Don’t touch me. Ever.” I use my shoulder to push past him. “People will be looking for me.”
His laugh follows me down the hallway. “No, they won’t,” he calls. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Heart pounding, I duck into a small service corridor rather than returning directly to the reception. Through a partially open door, I can see the gathering without being seen. My hands are shaking. I press them against the cool wall, trying to steady my breathing.
From my hidden vantage point, I watch as elderly Mr. Gianelli makes his way across the room, leaning heavily on his cane. He was one of Mom’s favorite customers. Every day he came in for the same order; a sourdough loaf and two almond cookies. He passes right by me without seeing me, heading straight for Sabrina.
“Such a tragedy,” I hear him say, patting her hand. “Your mom was the heart of the neighborhood.”
“Thank you,” Sabrina says, her voice thick with tears she can summon at will. “It means so much to hear that. The bakery was her life.”
The bakery that Sabrina hasn’t set foot in for months. The bakery whose books she’s never bothered to learn. The bakery whose dawn hours and flour-dusted air have shaped my hands, my schedule, my entire existence since I was old enough to reach the counter.
I watch as person after person bypasses the service corridor where I stand, making their way to Sabrina instead. Offeringcomfort, sharing memories, reinforcing the narrative that she—the beautiful, accomplished influencer—is the true inheritor of our mom’s legacy. Not me. Never me.
Maxwell lingers at the edge of her admirers, his gaze sweeping the room. Looking for me, I realize with a chill. His eyes pass over my hiding spot without pausing, but I shrink back instinctively anyway. I catch the way his stare fixes on other women in the room too—assessing, calculating, predatory. Then it returns to me, finding me at last in my shadowed corner.
He smiles, slow and knowing, his eyes dropping deliberately to my chest, my hips, my thighs straining against the black fabric. Making sure I see him looking.
I stay hidden, watching the reception continue without me, feeling both invisible and too exposed all at once. Wondering how I’ll make it through the rest of the day with Maxwell’s gaze following me like a promise of something I want no part of.
Chapter 3
Alina
The reception finally thins as the afternoon stretches into evening, mourners drifting away with murmured condolences that sound more like relief now that their social obligation is fulfilled.
