“Draw attention? You mean parading my humiliation for her benefit?” My voice shook. “You know damn well who she painted! My mother isn’t even buried yet, and you tricked me into attending the art exhibit of the woman who killed her?”
“Just shut up!” His brows furrowed, voice hardening as he grabbed my wrist. “I know what I’m doing with the funeral. Don’t make a scene here.”
His grip was painfully tight. I struggled, but he dragged me inside half by force.
The moment we stepped into the exhibition hall, the noise and flashing lights stung my eyes.
Anya approached at once, dressed in the same color palette as Erving, her skirt swaying gracefully. Her gaze carried a barely concealed triumph.
Erving immediately let go of me and strode toward her. He placed a hand on her arm and said with concern, “Why are you dressed so lightly? Aren’t you cold?”
“Not at all,” she replied sweetly. “You picked this dress for me. I’d wear it even if it snowed.”
As she spoke, her eyes flicked toward my pale face, and a smirk tugged at her lips.
I stood frozen, pain spreading quietly through my chest.