Three months after I buried my fiancé, I saw him standing at another woman's wedding,

Three months later, the state supreme courthouse was packed to maximum capacity.

The trial of *The State v. Adrian Parker and Colleen Parker* had become the legal spectacle of the year. The combination of high society, faked deaths, cemetery desecration, and million-dollar fraud had dominated national headlines for twelve weeks.

I sat in the front row of the gallery, dressed in a sharp forest-green blazer and dark trousers. Beside me sat Clara Montgomery.

The heiress had transformed. The delicate, fragile girl who had walked down the aisle in silk Mikado had cut her hair into a chic, sharp bob. She wore an elegant, understated black suit and carried a leather briefcase. Over the past ninety days, Clara and I had met multiple times—not as rivals, but as two women who had shared the same horrifying nightmare and decided to wake up together.

Clara had used her formidable financial resources to retain forensic accountants who uncovered every hidden offshore account Adrian had established. Together, our testimonies had dismantled every defense his high-priced lawyers attempted to construct.

At the defense table, Adrian Parker sat in an orange prison jumpsuit, his wrists shackled to his waist belt. His hair was cropped short, his face sunken, looking ten years older than the man who had stood at the altar in Cannon Beach photographs. Colleen sat three seats down from him, flanked by her own court-appointed attorney; mother and son refused to look at each other, their alliance having shattered during the grand jury depositions when Colleen attempted to pin the entire conspiracy on Adrian’s gambling habits.

Judge Evelyn Harrison adjusted her half-moon spectacles, looking down from the bench with stern, unforgiving eyes.

“Adrian Parker,” Judge Harrison began, her voice carrying through the silent courtroom like a verdict from heaven. “In my twenty-four years on the bench, I have rarely encountered an individual who displayed such a profound, calculated absence of human empathy. You did not merely commit financial fraud; you psychologically tortured the people who loved you most. You staged a horrific tragedy, desecrated a sacred resting place with hazardous refuse, and attempted to commodify the grief of two different women for your personal enrichment.”

Adrian stared at the wooden table, his shackled hands trembling against the polished oak.

“On Counts One through Four—Grand Larceny in the First Degree, Insurance Fraud, and Perjury—you are hereby sentenced to fifteen to twenty-two years in state correctional custody,” the judge declared, the heavy wooden gavel poised in her hand. “On Counts Five through Eight—Desecration of a Burial Site, Conspiracy, and Wire Fraud—you are sentenced to an additional eight years, to run consecutively. You will not be eligible for parole consideration until you have served a minimum of nineteen years.”

The gavel slammed down with a resounding *CRACK*.

Colleen let out a ragged, theatrical shriek, collapsing into her attorney’s arms as she was sentenced to twelve years for her direct role in the insurance fraud and mortuary bribery.

Adrian did not look back as two bailiffs gripped his arms and hoisted him to his feet.

As he was led toward the heavy holding cell doors at the side of the courtroom, he paused for a fraction of a second. His eyes flicked toward the gallery, catching mine.

There was no charm left in his gaze. No smooth, poetic promises. Only the hollow, vacant stare of a ruined man who had gambled everything and lost every single chip.

I looked directly into his eyes, and for the first time in four years, I felt absolutely nothing.

No anger. No hatred. No pain.

He was simply a stranger in an orange suit being led down a concrete stairwell.

As the heavy steel doors clanged shut behind him, Clara reached over and squeezed my hand.

“It’s over,” she whispered.

I took a deep, clean breath—the first breath in six months that didn't feel tainted by the smell of funeral lilies.