Nathan appeared in the hallway behind Zachary, looking for his wife. He peered into the room. When his eyes landed on Zachary, the blood drained from his face so fast I thought he was going to faint.
“Foster?” Nathan choked out.
Zachary turned slowly. He didn’t smile. He looked at Nathan with the cold, predatory gaze of a shark spotting a wounded seal.
“Reynolds,” Zachary said. His tone was professional, but there was a razor blade hidden in the syllables. “It’s been a long time. Not since the InnoTech deal, I believe.”
Nathan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked like he wanted to vanish. “You… you know each other?”
“Rebecca is my wife,” Zachary said, stepping to my side and wrapping an arm around my waist. The gesture was possessive, protective. “We’ve been married for two years.”
Stephanie looked between the two men, sensing a power dynamic she didn’t understand. “Nathan? You know him?”
“We’ve done business,” Nathan muttered, wiping sweat from his upper lip. “Foster Investments.”
“Wait,” Stephanie said, her eyes widening. “Foster Investments? The firm that bought the seaport tower in Boston last month?”
“That’s us,” Zachary said smoothly. “Rebecca loved the view from the top floor.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Stephanie looked at her husband, then at Zachary, and finally at me. The narrative she had built—that I was the sad, lonely spinster left behind—crumbled in seconds.
“We should get back,” Zachary said to me, dismissing them without another glance. “The service is starting.”
He guided me out, leaving them standing in the small, stale room. As we walked away, I heard Stephanie’s hiss: “Why didn’t you tell me he was Foster?” and Nathan’s desperate whisper: “Shut up, Steph. Just shut up.”
The service was a blur. I gave the eulogy. I spoke about Mother’s garden, her Sunday roasts, her belief in second chances. I didn’t look at Stephanie once.
When it was Stephanie’s turn, she walked up to the podium. She looked shaky. She read from a piece of paper, her voice trembling.
“Mom always loved… us,” she stammered. Then, she stopped. She looked out at the crowd, her face crumbling. She couldn’t finish. She burst into tears and ran off the stage.
Nathan didn’t move to comfort her. He sat in the front row, staring at his shoes, looking like a man awaiting sentencing.
It was me who stood up. I walked over to where she was sobbing near the side exit. I put a hand on her back.
“Breathe,” I said, echoing Zachary. “Just breathe.”
She looked at me, mascara running down her cheeks. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can. For Mom.”
After the burial, we hosted a reception at the house. The house felt too big without Mother in it. Father sat in his armchair, looking lost.
Nathan went straight for the open bar. I watched him down three scotches in twenty minutes. He was avoiding Zachary like the plague, standing in the corner, checking his phone nervously.
Halfway through the reception, Father clutched his chest again.
“Dad!” I rushed over.
“I’m fine,” he wheezed, waving me off. “Just… tired. Too much noise.”
“I’m taking him upstairs,” I announced. Zachary helped me get him up the stairs and into bed. We gave him his medication and sat with him until his breathing evened out.
“He needs rest,” Zachary said, checking Father’s pulse. “Real rest. Not this circus.”
“I’m staying,” I said. “I can’t leave him alone.”
“I have to get back to Chicago tomorrow for the board meeting,” Zachary said gently. “The acquisition…”
“I know. Go. I’ll stay here for the week. Help him sort through the house. Get the legal stuff settled.”
Zachary kissed me. “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
He left for the airport that evening. Most of the guests had cleared out. Nathan had practically dragged Stephanie out the door an hour earlier, looking like he was fleeing a crime scene.
The house was quiet. Just the ticking of the grandfather clock and the hum of the refrigerator.
I spent the next day sorting through Mother’s closet. It was a masochistic task—smelling her perfume on her cardigans, finding notes she had written to herself.
Buy Thomas’s heart meds.
Call Rebecca – Tuesday.
Pray for Stephanie.
That evening, I was sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by photo albums, when the doorbell rang.
I frowned. It was 8:00 PM. Father was asleep upstairs.
I opened the door.
Stephanie was standing on the porch. She was alone. She wasn’t wearing the expensive sunglasses or the defiant armor she had worn at the funeral. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. Her eyes were red.
She looked… young.
“Can I come in?” she asked. Her voice was small.
I hesitated. Every instinct screamed to slam the door. To protect the peace I had fought so hard to find.
But then I remembered Mother’s voice in the hospital room. Promise me.
“Come in,” I said, stepping aside.