The way Vanessa clung to him didn’t look like comfort.
It looked like possession.
When the final hymn ended and people began to rise, a man in a gray suit stepped forward. He looked to be in his early sixties, composed, deliberate. He carried a leather briefcase and the air of someone there to fulfill a precise obligation.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “My name is Michael Bennett. I am Claire Brooks’ attorney.”
Ethan’s head jerked toward him.
“Now?” he snapped. “You’re doing this now?”
Mr. Bennett didn’t blink.
“Your wife left clear instructions,” he replied evenly. “Her will was to be read today, at her funeral, in the presence of her family.”
He paused.
“And in yours.”
The air shifted. The grief sharpened into something electric.
Mr. Bennett opened his folder.
“There is a statement Claire insisted be read aloud.”
Vanessa’s grip tightened.
Ethan’s face drained of color — and this time, it wasn’t an act.
The lawyer unfolded the letter.
“If you are hearing this, I am no longer alive. Ethan, I know about Vanessa. I have known for longer than you realize…”
A murmur swept through the church.
My mother covered her mouth.
Ethan stiffened.