Chapter 7
Serena's POV
Noah's funeral was held three days later.
The gauze on my forehead hadn't been removed yet. The doctor said I needed at least another week of rest, but I had no choice—I had to be there today.
The concussion's aftereffects reminded me of their presence the moment I stepped out of the car. The edges of my vision swam briefly, and I had to grip the car door for two seconds before I could walk.
Injured or not, as Mrs. Kensington, I had to be impeccable on an occasion like this. I couldn't give anyone ammunition for gossip.
Guests filed in one after another. I sat in the second row, toward the inside. The seat beside me was empty.
Leo stood in the first row the entire time, next to Tiffany.
Tiffany wore a high-collared black dress, her veil covering half her face, completely concealing the wound on her forehead—the one I'd inflicted. Erik sat on her lap, his small body curled against his mother, too young to understand what was happening.
Behind me, whispers drifted forward.
"Serena's really pitiful, isn't she? I heard she fell down the stairs a couple of days ago—had to get stitches—but Leo doesn't seem to care at all."
"Noah was Leo's brother. It's normal to look after Tiffany at a time like this. After all, Serena only bumped her head. Tiffany lost her husband."
"That's not what I'm talking about. Look at the way Leo's holding Tiffany... Has your husband's brother ever held you like that?"
A brief silence followed that remark, then someone let out a soft hiss through their teeth.
My fingers paused on the clasp of the clutch in my lap, then released it. My expression didn't change.
I didn't turn around. Didn't frown. Didn't straighten my back any further than it already was.
At a funeral, any flicker of emotion would be read as causing a scene. If I made a single misstep today, by tomorrow every ladies' circle in Miami would be telling the story of how Serena made a spectacle of herself at Noah's funeral.
The pastor took the podium. The music began.
The ceremony lasted an hour and a half.
In that hour and a half, Leo did not look back at me once.
His hand rested on the back of Tiffany's chair. Occasionally he leaned down to murmur something to her. Tiffany leaned against his shoulder, tears streaming silently, a small patch of her black veil darkened with moisture.
Midway through, Erik fussed—his shrill little voice cutting through the low drone of the organ. Leo reached over and took him, cradling the boy against his chest, one hand patting his back gently.
The gesture was so tender.
I suddenly remembered a night a year ago. I'd had a fever of a hundred and two, couldn't sleep, kept tossing and turning in bed. Leo had patted my back the same way—his palm rising and falling, light and steady—until I drifted off again.
Back then, I'd believed he cared about me.
Now, watching him use that same gesture to soothe another woman's child, every tender memory curdled. It was like someone had stirred a spoonful of salt into sweet water—no matter how I tried to recall the sweetness, all that remained was a bitter aftertaste.
After the ceremony, guests were guided to the reception hall for tea and refreshments.
I followed the crowd through the corridor connecting the church to the hall. Most of the Kensington family had gathered together, speaking in low voices, their expressions somber.
Katarina was struggling to maintain composure. Her grief was pressed down to the very bottom of her expression, surfacing only in the occasional glance toward Tiffany—a flash of something so sharp it could cut the air.
She held it in until the last of the outsiders had left.
Then Katarina's face turned ashen, three days of anguish and fury compressed beneath her skin. She walked up to Tiffany, and her hand rose.
The slap came with an audible rush of air.
Leo moved faster than my eyes could follow.
He stepped in from the side and shielded Tiffany entirely behind him.
Crack—
The sharp sound exploded through the reception hall.
Everyone froze in the same instant. The room went so silent you could hear a server's footsteps echoing from the far corridor.
Katarina's hand still hung in midair.
Her eyes reddened instantly. Her chest heaved twice. Her fingers trembled.
She'd meant to hit Tiffany.
The blow had landed on her own son—the only son she had left, after just losing her firstborn.
A red mark bloomed quickly across Leo's left cheek, spreading from his cheekbone to his ear.
He didn't step back. Didn't raise a hand to touch his face. He only lowered his voice. "Mother, this isn't Tiffany's fault. Noah's death was an accident. She's grieving too. She's carrying a child—you can't blame her for this."
Katarina stared at Leo's face, her chest heaving violently. Her lips moved, but in the end she said nothing. She simply drew her hand back slowly, turned, and walked through the crowd toward the exit.
The click of her heels on the marble floor grew faster with every step.
People in the hall began speaking again, all voices deliberately hushed, merging into a low hum.
I stood against the wall and watched Leo turn around.
He reached out and steadied Tiffany's shoulders, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Tears spilled down Tiffany's face, and then she tilted forward, burying her face in his chest.
Leo's arms closed around Tiffany's back.
At his brother's funeral. In front of everyone.
I looked away.
That was when I felt another gaze on me.
The sensation was oddly precise—like someone pressing a fingertip lightly against the side of my face.
I followed the direction of that gaze.
Winston stood on the far side of the reception hall, leaning against a pillar, one hand in his suit pocket. His eyes weren't on Leo and Tiffany. They were fixed on me.
Our gazes met for a single beat across the air between us.
He didn't look away.
My heart skipped half a beat. The sensation linked itself to the memory of that room three days ago, and the tips of my ears began to burn.
I looked away first.
I slipped along the wall and out of the reception hall, through the corridor, toward the garden behind the church.
The garden was empty. A gravel path ran between neatly trimmed boxwood hedges, ending at an old stone fountain with a few fallen leaves floating on its surface.
I stood by the pool and drew two deep breaths. The funeral was over, but there was still so much to do.
Gather evidence of Leo's affair—photographs, recordings, communication records. Willow was right: as long as I had solid proof in hand, Leo would have no choice but to sit down and negotiate.
Leo had taken a slap from his own mother to shield Tiffany. In front of the entire family, he'd chosen to stand on her side. He didn't even care how much it would hurt Katarina.
Leo had handed my bank card to Tiffany. And the moment Tiffany pushed me down those stairs, I was certain she'd intended to kill me.
There was no reason left to continue this marriage. I had to divorce him as quickly as possible and then get far away from all of them.
It was time to go back. I couldn't be absent too long.
On my way, I took the flagstone path along the side of the church, planning to loop around through the back door to the parking lot. At the corner was a half-open cloister, its stone columns draped in ivy that cast the space within into shifting half-light.
Before I reached the corner, a voice drifted out from inside the cloister.
"Noah's dead. You must be thrilled now."
