But he froze when he saw me standing there — leaning against the doorway, phone in hand, watching them with a half-smile.
“Seraphine? Why are you here?” he stammered.
“This is my house,” I replied evenly. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”
I gestured casually toward the hallway.
“Don’t mind me. Go on. Continue what you were doing.”
His face darkened as he set Ivy down.
“Your sister is dead, and you’re not even at the wake. What kind of sister does that make you?”
I almost laughed in disbelief.
He had the gall to commit adultery in our home and then lecture me about morals.
“Since you’re here,” Lucian said coldly, “I’ll make this easy. Since you refuse to sign, and the hospital can’t reach your family, I’ll sign the death certificate on your behalf.”
He shoved a plastic-wrapped box into my hands.
“These are your sister’s ashes. Saves me the trouble of delivering them later.”
I had expected him to be callous. But the box was battered, and when he thrust it at me, ashes spilled onto the floor.
Something in me snapped.
“Lucian,” I said icily, “you treat your mistress like a treasure — but when it comes to your own sister, you can’t wait to destroy the evidence, can you?”