“What did you just say?” I whispered at first, my voice barely audible. Then it rose, uncontrollable. “What right does she have?! What right does she have to go there, to stand at my daughter’s grave?”
My whole body trembled. “No murderer deserves to be there. None.”
Damian didn’t look me in the eyes. His gaze was cast downward, voice quiet. “I already had a ritual performed. The child… she accepted her as her godmother.”
My blood ran cold. My veins felt like they were full of knives. A godmother? That fucking… godmother?
Chiara stepped closer, a bouquet in her hands. “Clara,” she said softly, offering them to me. “These are for you. Congratulations on your new life.”
The scent hit me first—overpowering, cloying, suffocating. My skin crawled, a maddening itch spreading up my arms, along my neck, across my face. Every ounce of her—the way she spoke, smiled, smelled—felt like venom.
I slapped the flowers out of her hands. They tumbled to the floor, petals scattering across the tiles. I didn’t even have the energy to yell. What was the point? They’d already stripped everything from me.